My Little Rose
by xxlezah
Summary: Amélie-Rose was found abandoned on the Opera House steps one winter night. When Erik returns to the Opera House after many years in Persia, he remembers the little girl that he had once been a friend to so many years ago. The arrival of Christine threatens to throw their friendship into peril, and this time it is Erik who must make a choice. Lots of fluff in store, please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: It's my first phanfic ever, so please be kind to me! After having skulked around here for a couple of months, I was greatly inspired to write my own fanfiction, and so here it is! (I would like to thank in particular, **xsilver-galxyx**, **Louise-Anne**, **charleygirl**, **FantomPhan33** and **PoE99** for their amazing stories which I have been reading faithfully since I started reading phanfic. Thank you for the inspiration! You may have seen me popping by in reviews, under the name "Hazel". If you happen to be reading my humble story, which I don't suppose you are anyway haha.)

My story may not be the most original fanfic around, what with all the numerous great story ideas out there, but I hope you like it anyway. This story contains my OC, and hopefully you'll like her.

DISCLAIMER (not sure how this is supposed to go but I see it in almost every story, so here goes): I don't own anything, except the baby at this moment. You'll see what I mean when you read on!

Let me know what you think! I would love to hear your comments!

xx Hazel

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**Chapter 1: The Beginning**

_Paris, 1880_

It was a cold, wintry evening when eighteen-year-old Antoinette Bellamy, a ballerina at the Palais Garnier in Paris, arrived back at the opera house, the basket on her arm full of the dancers' toe slippers she had been sent out to buy, and various other paraphernalia. The day had been cold and blustery, with the winter winds whipping at her face, and Antoinette hurried toward the steps leading to the service doors at the back of the opera house, pulling her worn shawl around her shoulders. Climbing the stairs two at a time in a rather unladylike manner, she hurriedly inserted the key into the door, pushing it open, when she noticed a strange bundle of rags next to the stairs. It was not the presence of the rags that was strange— people were always leaving rubbish behind on the streets— but rather the muffled, keening sounds issuing from the bundle. Antoinette set her basket down on the top step, and cautiously made her way over to the bundle. She bent slightly, and pulled back the top layer of blankets, to reveal a baby's face, screwed up and red with the exertion of crying. It looked to be around two years old. Antoinette gasped and almost lost her balance, stumbling backward. She hurriedly picked the bundle up, cradling it toward her chest with her firm dancer's arms. She looked around, but there was nobody on the streets save for a few poor souls who were striding as fast as they could, scarves wrapped tightly around their necks, in a bid to escape the cold winter air. She contemplated the baby silently. It did not seem possible for her to bring the baby into the opera house, and yet she could not leave it on the doorsteps to freeze to death.

Biting her lip, Antoinette balanced the baby on one arm, and picked up her basket with the other, pushing the door open with her elbow and ducking into the entrance of the employees' hallway. She heaved a sigh of relief when she saw that nobody was about. It would have been difficult explaining the baby at the moment. Rehearsals for a production that she was not part of were underway, and Antoinette hurriedly rushed to the dormitories, where she deposited the basket on her bed. Scooping up the baby in her arms, she sneaked to the kitchen, praying that nobody would see her. The baby was quiet for most of the journey, but it was fussing about restlessly in its swaddling, and Antoinette supposed that the baby was hungry.

Once in the warm kitchen, she set the baby gingerly down onto the table, and started to rummage around the cupboards in the kitchen. _Shouldn't there be a bottle somewhere from when Madame Bissette's daughter had her baby and brought the baby over for a couple of days when there was nobody at home to look after it? _She opened cupboards randomly, hoping that she would find the baby bottle. When at last the contents of a cupboard at the end of the kitchen revealed what she was looking for, Antoinette grabbed the baby bottle triumphantly, noting that it was dusty from being kept in the cupboard for so long. She ground her teeth in frustration, and started rooting around the cupboards again for a pan in which to boil water. It took a while, but at last the bottle was bobbing around in a pan of boiling water on the stove, and next to it was another pan filled with a little cow's milk that Antoinette had unearthed from the icebox in the kitchen.

She waited for a couple of minutes, and decided that whatever germs that had been on that bottle should have died, before fishing it out of the water gingerly with a cloth wrapped around her hands. She turned off the stove, and let the milk cool for a short while before pouring it into the baby bottle, then hurriedly rinsed the pans and returned them to the cupboard.

"I thought _I'm_ the one who usually has to sneak around the kitchens, Antoinette." A soft voice came from a dark corner of the kitchen and Antoinette yelped in shock, almost dropping the bottle. She turned upon the issuer of the voice, scowling.

It was him. She had not even needed to turn; that melodious voice, soft yet enchanting, could only have belonged to one person. He hid in a corner of the kitchen, the darkness cloaking his thin figure, casting shadows upon his face. Only the white leather of the mask covering half his face shone dully in the little light that the windows at the top of the kitchen let in. His thick black hair, unkempt and unruly, hung across his forehead, and gleaming green eyes shone in the darkness of the kitchen. He was but a boy of twelve, and yet he carried himself proudly, with a bearing suited for aristocracy.

"Hello, Antoinette." He said quietly.

"Erik!" She hissed. "You scared me to death! Whatever are you doing here?"

He lifted the loaf of bread that he had in his hands. It had become something of a habit for Erik to pilfer his own meals from the well stocked pantry in the kitchen whenever Antoinette was too busy with rehearsals to get his meals for him. Antoinette always felt a pang of guilt when he had to do so; she had brought the boy here, supposedly saved him from his previously miserable life, and yet as a ballerina she had little time to spare for him. She nodded, before a piercing cry broke the silence in the kitchen, and Antoinette remembered what she was there for. She hurried back to the table, thanking god that the baby did not seem to have suffered much in the cold, if it could yell at the top of its voice that way. Cradling the baby in her arms, she lifted the bottle to the baby's mouth. It needed no encouragement, and began to suckle on the bottle enthusiastically. Antoinette looked up at Erik, who had a pained expression on his face, no doubt from the loud cry the baby had given only moments ago.

"What is that thing?" He asked hesitantly, gesturing to the baby.

"That _thing_, as you so put it, is a baby, Erik." Antoinette told him primly.

Voices from just beyond the kitchen startled her, and she looked frantically around the room. There was no way to leave the kitchen without being seen now.

Sensing her distress, Erik sighed and beckoned to her. She followed him to the pantry, where he fumbled around with parts of the wall, until an invisible door swung open in one of the walls. Antoinette gaped at the door. Ten years she had been here at the Palais Garnier, and not a single instance had anybody told her about the existence of such doors. Erik merely raised an eyebrow and waved her forward into the passage. She looked at the dusty, shadowy passage skeptically, but the nearing voices from the passageway outside the kitchen made her rush into the passageway; there was no other choice. Once inside, she thrust her free arm out wildly, trying to discern a solid object she could hold on to. Erik entered behind her, closing the door and sealing off the little light that had streamed in from the pantry windows. Antoinette felt a sense of panic as she was ensconced in the darkness, but the next moment, Erik's hand had closed around her elbow comfortingly.

"It's a straight path from here, Antoinette. I'll keep my hand on your elbow, and guide you. Just keep walking straight and follow my instructions." Antoinette swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded gratefully, knowing Erik could see her. She knew how much Erik despised touch, and she was grateful that he was putting aside his discomfort to guide her.

"Where are we going?" She whispered.

"I discovered an old, unused storage room not far from here. We will not be discovered there." He murmured, putting pressure on her elbow to indicate that she should start moving. She walked forward in small, mincing steps.

"That's good, I don't think the damp fifth cellars will be good for the baby."

His only response was a disbelieving snort.

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UPDATE: I've noticed that most people read chapter 1 and then give up on the story... please don't! I promise that it gets much better in the following chapters, though chapter 1 is a little choppy and boring. Please do continue reading! (:

A/N: Well I hope that wasn't too bad to get through! I actually already have chapter 2 in the works, and am working on it right now, so please do review chapter 1 and let me know what you think. I would love to hear from you, and also please feel free to give any constructive criticism; I don't bite. Forgive me for any grammar errors or such things. Also, I know zilch about Paris in 1880 and babies, but I did a little bit of research, so let me know if I missed out anything, or that it's simply impossible for any such thing to have occurred in my story.

Til the next chapter~


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Well, I'm back again! I couldn't stay away. I got some hits on chapter 1, but no reviews (which makes me sad, but not discouraged!) so I'm hoping that chapter 2 will elicit some responses? (: It's a little cliché to be sure, but I'm sure we all need some fluff and happiness in our lives, haha. So please do read, and review! Let me know what you think! Even a simple little "hi I'm reading this" would make my day haha. Patronise a junior college student who's busy studying for her final year exams, pretty please? (:

Have a good weekend ahead!

xx Hazel

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**Chapter 2: Amélie-Rose**

_Paris, 1880_

Antoinette continued walking cautiously, until Erik tugged on her elbow slightly. "Stop here, please."

He edged past her in the dark, reaching out his hands to tap a button on the wall before them, and another door swung open, revealing an old storeroom in one of the cellars that was no longer used because it was so out of the way. The room smelled musty, but Antoinette noticed it was clean and mostly free of dust. She supposed that Erik had possibly done some skulking about earlier and cleaned up the room. He had always been much of a stickler for a clean place to stay. Erik entered the room, and struck a match from a matchbox lying on a nearby crate, lighting the lone candle in the sconce on the wall. It cast a dim, mysterious glow over the room, much like how Erik preferred it to be. Mysterious.

He walked over to an overturned crate and sat on it, waving his hand regally to gesture to Antoinette to make herself comfortable on one of the other crates. Antoinette had to stifle a small smile at that—the boy had been so insistent in perfecting his manners, and the way he spoke and ate, that it showed in every nuance of himself. She sat on one of the crates, placing the baby in her lap, the baby suckling happily on the bottle and making gurgling noises.

"In a habit of picking up strays, aren't you, Antoinette?" He crossed and uncrossed his ankles, clearly uncomfortable with the presence of the baby.

"I could hardly leave her to die out there in the cold, Erik." She told him sternly. He shook his head.

"Much like how you couldn't leave me to die at the hands of the gendarmes who would have had me hung for murder. I should have died."

She hated his self-loathing, and how he degraded himself. "Stop that, Erik!" She said sharply. "I won't have you calling yourself a monster. I did not save a _monster_, I saved a boy who deserved a chance to live in this world."

His stubborn, obstinate face told her that he disagreed with her heartily, but she chose not to push the topic. The earlier years of Erik's life had not been good, and she was perhaps, in no position to be preachy to him. She doubted that anybody who had experienced what he had would have a rosy outlook of the world.

"Never mind about that. I've been too busy to look you up recently, tell me, what have you been up to?" She offered as a means to start a conversation. He rarely talked to her as it was, preferring to remain closed up in his own little world. He gestured around the room.

"I discovered this room a few days ago. I've been cleaning it, making it a good enough place for me to stay in sometimes, to meet you here. It doesn't seem feasible to have you traipsing around the cellars when you could be called back for rehearsals anytime. This room might be a little inconvenient still, but it will be better than the cellars."

Erik had always been somewhat of an enigma to her. Two years ago, Antoinette Bellamy had followed the other ballet rats a little unwillingly to the gypsy fair that had been set up a few days earlier in town, boasting acrobats, tumblers, fortune tellers, and, she shuddered to think about it, _human oddities_. Amongst them had been a boy, emaciated and starved, beaten. Antoinette had never forgotten the look in his eyes as he made flowers sing, the look of a boy so starved of affection as though he had never felt it before.

She had not hesitated to bring him away when she saw him strangle his jailor to death, after everyone had filed out from the tent, murmuring in shock and disgust. Antoinette had stayed by the entrance, peering in cautiously. Part of her had felt triumph even, when he emerged from the cage, dirty and unkempt, yet not a single bit of remorse on his face. It was a sin to kill, surely, but Antoinette had not wasted a single moment in grabbing his hand and pulling him out of the tent. He had shied back, unsure and unwelcoming of human contact, but she had pulled him along anyway. At that moment she had not thought of anything, not the shouts that echoed behind them, or the fact that she was in fact an accomplice in his murder now. She had smuggled him into the Palais Garnier through the employees' entrance, and showed him the door leading to the cellars.

Through much coaxing, she had learnt that his name was Erik. He refused to tell her anything more about his life before the gypsies, only mentioning briefly that he used to have a mother, who had been the most beautiful person he had ever set his eyes on. Antoinette had seen the slight sheen of tears in his eyes as he had mentioned his mother. As an orphan herself, Antoinette had never known her parents, her mother having died in childbirth and her father in some sort of accident, and she wondered what it was like to be abandoned by one's own mother. She had not brought up his family ever again, and Erik seemed happier that way.

Erik had spent the next two years exploring the Palais Garnier, to discover, to his great surprise, that there were numerous passageways that ran throughout the Palais Garnier, much like a giant labyrinth with no end. The unused fourth and fifth cellars beneath the opera house were a multitude of rooms and empty spaces, and Erik had found the perfect place in the fifth cellar when he now stayed. It was not much, just a pile of cloths to sleep in, in a large empty space filled with numerous storerooms beside a lake, a place for him to call home, but it was _home_. During the day, he often flitted around the secret passages, listening in to conversations, or watching rehearsals. More than once, Antoinette had met him after rehearsals, only to have to put up with his ranting regarding which trombone had gone off pitch during which movement of whichever song it was. As a ballet rat, Antoinette did not know much about music, and she had sat, slightly bemused, listening to him talk. Honestly, it was not difficult; nobody in their right minds would refuse to listen to Erik speak. The soft, elegant voice had been a calming balm to Antoinette's tired mind and body after a long day of practice.

Antoinette looked at Erik now, two years later. He was no longer as emaciated, but he was no doubt still skinnier than most boys his age were. He did not know what his real age was, having never really celebrated a birthday before, but he estimated himself to be about twelve years old. When Antoinette had asked him about his birthday, he had refused to say anything about it, shouting that birthdays were stupid, and not worth any trouble whatsoever. She had learned quickly that Erik had a rather explosive temper, though he calmed down quickly enough, but it was best not to get him started on one.

"Antoinette, I'm thinking of leaving the Palais Garnier." His voice broke through her reverie and she frowned, trying to clear her thoughts.

"What? What do you mean?"

"I want to travel. I want to see the world. I need to know if there is any place in the world for a monster like me."

"You're only twelve, Erik."

"Old enough."

"No! I do not want you to leave, I forbid you to leave!" She said, a little alarmed. She could not imagine a twelve-year-old boy travelling around the world by himself. Why, when she had been twelve, the only thing on Antoinette's mind had been how to get through strenuous ballet practices, and the disgusting porridge served every morning for breakfast in the opera house. She knew she had said the wrong thing when Erik's eyes flashed dangerously.

"You _forbid_ me to?" He snapped. "Nobody has the right to forbid me to do anything at all!"

"Erik. Please." She said soothingly, trying to calm him. "Give it a few more years, perhaps? You're too young, I don't want to think of you struggling to make your way through the world. A few more years." Antoinette did not want him to leave, honestly, as she had begun to think of him as a young brother. She had never had any family besides the ballet rats growing up, and Erik had been a brother to her.

He acquiesced unwillingly. "Perhaps I'll stay a little longer." But she saw in his eyes that same obstinate streak, and knew that she would not be able to keep him much longer anyway, despite what he said. Antoinette resigned to save more of her meagre pay each month, so that she could give him more when he decided to leave. She knew he would probably refuse her money, but really, logic had to stand firm over pride sometimes; how else was he to live?

The baby shifted in her lap, reminding her of its presence. She removed the empty bottle, setting it aside. Noticing Erik watching her quite intently, she beckoned him over. "Come and have a look at her, Erik."

He balked visibly, and gave Antoinette a look that suggested he would rather gouge his own eyes out than do anything of the sort. She clucked her tongue impatiently, fixing her most stern glare on her face, the one that worked on all the ballet rats in her dormitory, and beckoned him over again. He relented, unfolding his long limbs off the crate and walking over to peer at the baby.

The next thing that happened was rather unexpected, and neither of them were prepared for it. The baby, upon seeing Erik's white mask, began to bawl at the top of its lungs, waving its little fists around and somehow, managing to hit Erik in the face and dislodge his mask, sending it flying. Erik screamed and jumped back in horror, clapping a hand over his face, and the baby cried even louder.

"Oh for god's sake!" Erik shouted, fumbling around in the near darkness and trying to grope for his mask without lifting his hand from his face. Antoinette winced at the combined decibels of the baby's shrieks and Erik's yells. Erik scrambled around frantically, and finally gave up, deciding to use both hands to search.

Antoinette was more than surprised to see the baby quieten down, as it turned its little head toward Erik, peering at his exposed face.

"Erik! She's frightened of the mask, you fool."

"What? Has the damp air gone to your brain, Antoinette? I don't know what possessed you to ask me to look at a baby; it is no wonder the baby screamed. Any baby would be terrified of a demon!" He grumbled, finally unearthing his mask from where it had flown and slipping it back on over his face. The baby took one look at his newly masked visage, and promptly burst into tears again. He jumped back in horror, stuffing his fingers into his ears.

"Take it off!" Antoinette gestured wildly with her free hand, trying to yell over the baby's cries. "I'm going quite deaf, Erik!"

"No!" He protested vehemently, but Antoinette fixed her death glare on her face again. Reluctantly, he slipped his mask off again, but kept a hand clapped over his face. He hesitantly approached the baby and ran a bony finger slowly down its cheek, wet with fresh fallen tears.

"There… there." He barely managed to spit out in distaste. "Uh… don't cry."

It took the baby a short while to register his face, and gradually it stopped crying, making soft whimpering noises. Antoinette heaved a sigh of relief as her eardrums were liberated from their torture. Before Erik could withdraw his finger however, the baby had grabbed onto it tightly in its pudgy fists.

Erik stared. There was silence. And for a moment, Erik felt a strange surging feeling of warmth toward the tiny, noisy creature held in Antoinette's arms. He tugged gently on his finger, trying to remove it from the baby's little hand, but it refused to let go, and instead gurgled happily up at him.

Antoinette observed the boy before her silently. He did not let much of his feelings show, but she could tell he was probably touched.

"Would you like to give her a name, Erik?" She asked gently. When he did not respond and continued staring at the baby with his intent green gaze, she suppressed a smirk.

"Erik?" She prodded.

"Amélie." He said finally. "Amélie-Rose."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Well, third chapter's up! I got a lot less hits for chapter 2 as compared to chapter 1, and still no reviews, which makes me think that the story was just too bad that you guys just opened it and decided not to read any more... Hopefully third time's a charm and I'll get at least one review this time? (: I would really love to hear what you think, so please leave a review! It can even be a one liner telling me if you liked it, or you hated it. (Though I do hope you liked it.) I'm posting up chapter 3 quickly just for that!

Chapter 3 comes with a bit more fluff, I'm building the story up as we go... I don't know if this will have a really concrete plot, or if the whole thing is just going to be fluff, because quite frankly, I suck at writing villains and credible plots. We will see how it goes.

Please read and review! It keeps the author happy and writing! (:

xx Hazel

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**Chapter 3: Plausible Friendships**

_Paris, 1880_

"You did what? Kindly repeat yourself, Mademoiselle Bellamy." The manager clucked his tongue impatiently, not sure if he had heard her right the first time. Alphonse Debienne, the current manager of the opera house, was a rather dignified man of nearing fifty years of age. His dark brown hair was sprinkled liberally with grey, and the hair at the side of his temples was greying too. He had been the manager for quite a number of years, having taken over the post from the old manager not long after Antoinette had arrived at the Palais Garnier.

"Monsieur, please! I couldn't leave her out in the cold! She could have died." Antoinette pleaded, gesturing to the baby in her arms. The baby gave a satisfied gurgle, as if to agree with what Antoinette had just said. Antoinette knew Debienne would cave in sooner or later; the manager was not a bad man. Debienne ran a hand through his hair exasperatedly and fixed her with a stern stare.

"Well, what do you propose we do with this little baby here, then, Mademoiselle Bellamy?"

"She could stay with me in the dormitory, sir! There's a spare bed there next to mine, she could take it when she's older. She can earn her keep by running errands around the opera house; you know the wardrobe department is always in need of another person to sew the costumes, and we could even train her for the _corps de ballet _when she's old enough! We always have a lack of dancers!" Antoinette rambled off wildly. Debienne sighed resignedly.

"I don't suppose she will make much of a difference around here anyway. I just don't want her interfering with your rehearsal time, mademoiselle." He warned. Antoinette nodded fervently.

"She will be a perfect angel, I just know it, sir! Thank you so much!" She gushed. She would have grabbed his hands in gratitude, but they were busy carrying little Amélie. He looked a little embarrassed, and waved his hand dismissively.

"Run along now then, dinner will be served soon, I suppose, and you'll be wanting your dinner, and so will the little one. What did you say her name was again?"

"Ah, Amélie-Rose, sir."

"Welcome to the Palais Garnier then, little Amélie. Now do run along, mademoiselle. I have other things to settle. I will give you fifteen francs extra each month for her upkeep, and you will have to make do with that." He added offhand. Antoinette raised her eyebrows; she had not expected such generosity from the manager.

"Thank you again, sir!" She said, before rushing out the door, in case he changed his mind.

By the time dinner ended, news about the new baby in the opera house had spread throughout like wildfire. Many of the ballet rats in the _corps de ballet_ crowded into the dormitory room Antoinette shared with some of the other ballet rats to coo and gasp over the new baby. Even La Carlotta, the _prima donna_, had to overcome her curiosity by strutting in to look at the new baby, but when Amélie began to wail at the top of her lungs after a whiff of La Carlotta's strongly scented floral perfume, La Carlotta coughed disdainfully, and sailed out of the room muttering under her breath about noisy children and their lack of appreciation for beauty. The _prima ballerina_ La Célestin passed by Carlotta on her way out, and she giggled to see her leave in a huff. Making her way over to Antoinette's bed, she peered closely at the baby held in Antoinette's arms.

"Let me see her." She demanded, not unkindly. Antoinette gladly surrendered the baby over to her. La Célestin cooed at Amélie, bobbing her in her arms, and Amélie made small happy sounds. "Well, we will make a dancer out of you, won't we, my pet?" La Célestin said, before handing her back to Antoinette, then gliding out of the room gracefully.

With little Amélie in her arms again, Antoinette sat back against her pillows, closing her eyes wearily. It had been a long day, what if rehearsals, errand running, and now a new baby to take care of. Her rest was cut short, however, when the door flew open again, and the ballet rats she shared the dormitory room with burst in excitedly, all babbling loudly.

"We heard there was a new baby!"

"Is she adorable? We heard she's really sweet!"

"What does she look like, Antoinette?"

"Are you sure she's not really yours, Antoinette?"

"Don't be a fool, you idiot! Antoinette has been here every day, do you think we wouldn't have noticed if she was pregnant and ran off to have a baby?"

"Let me see her, let me see her!"

Antoinette winced as the baby began to wail upon the onset of all the high-pitched, excited voices. She tried to quieten the baby by bouncing her in her arms, making soothing noises.

"Quiet, girls!" She warned them sternly, and the ballet rats lowered their voices, chastened. Antoinette had always had a way to make them behave even at their most unruly moments. Some of them called it her gift; others said that she was merely bossy. The ballet rats, trying their best to be quiet, crowded around the baby, running their fingers over her now rosy cheeks and cooing over the strands of russet hair scattered on the baby's head.

"She's probably going to grow up to be real pretty, isn't she?" Sorelli, a ballet rat barely past the age of thirteen, said enviously. "Her hair looks like it's the most gorgeous shade of bronze, and those eyes! Bluer than a clear summer's sky."

"Oh, Sorelli, you're one to talk!" Another ballet rat responded, and the rest chorused in agreement. Sorelli, with her thick, lustrous black locks, so black they almost appeared a dark blue, and her pale, unblemished skin, was one of the prettier girls in the _corps de ballet_, but her insecurities at the young age of thirteen were many. Antoinette shook her head wryly.

"Girls, it's late. It's time to sleep, and the baby needs her rest too. You know we have stayed up past lights out already." She told them. As the oldest in the dormitory, Antoinette had taken it upon herself to mother them around. The ballet rats groaned, but most complied and went around, untying their hair, slipping into their nightgowns and turning down their bedclothes. Amélie seemed to have dozed off herself. Antoinette lowered herself gingerly down beside Amélie, praying that she would not squash her accidentally in her sleep. She had had no experience with babies.

_Paris, 1882_

Two years had passed relatively quickly. Amélie had grown into a chubby toddler, a head full of russet locks and a beaming face with charming blue eyes. She was not a pretty toddler, no, with freckles and lips that were rather too full, but all the ballet rats agreed that she was an extremely sweet child all the same. The corridors were often filled with cries calling for Amélie to bring them the hair ribbons that they had forgotten to bring along for rehearsals, or to help them to fetch some other item from their rooms in the opera house. Amélie was, of course, only too happy to oblige, her little feet pattering around the hallways as she completed their errands, to be rewarded by a pat on the head, or a little bit of candy.

Antoinette was heartened by how well Amélie had grown. She had been worried that she would not have the skills required to bring up the little girl, but as it was, in the bustling opera house, Amélie thrived and flourished like a blooming rose. She admired the ballet rats for their pretty costumes, often sparkling with sequins, or flowing behind them like the wind, and she often told Antoinette happily that one day, she would be wearing one of those costumes too.

Antoinette herself was almost twenty, and training to take over the place of La Célestin, who was preparing to retire soon. La Célestin had found herself a wealthy old widowed landowner with no children who adored her to bits, and she was all ready to retire from her life on the stage to take residency in one of his large properties. There had been a large flurry of gossip the day La Célestin announced her imminent departure, followed by a triumphant cackle from La Carlotta, who had never been able to see eye to eye with the dainty blonde ballerina. The gossip had, naturally, been about who was to be La Célestin's successor. As one of the more accomplished ballerinas in the _corps de ballet_, Antoinette was sure that she had the potential to take on the role and succeed in it. Her practice hours became long, with few breaks in between, and Amélie found herself having the wander the corridors, searching for something to amuse herself with.

It was during one of Antoinette's long practices that Amélie saw him.

She had been sitting by herself in a dark corridor, staring at the cracks in the wall, tracing them with her eyes and trying to find a pattern in them, wondering what she would do next, when she heard a faint pop. The wall next to her suddenly slid open, and somebody stepped out. She jumped up with a start, squeaking in surprise. The person who had stepped out coughed in surprise as well. He turned to go, but Amélie stopped him with a tug on the hem of his pants. She was bored, and she had nobody to play with since most of the ballet rats were either practicing, or having dinner. She figured that this newcomer could entertain her for a while, since he did not seem to be busy with rehearsals. He turned back to look at her, and it was only then that she realized that half of his face was covered with a white mask. She stared at the mask curiously.

The strangest thing happened next, for the masked stranger held out a hand to her and beckoned. There seemed to be something rather familiar about him, even though she had no idea who he was. She had never seen him before. Amélie put her small hand into his without hesitation, beaming up at him innocently. When he started walking back into the passageway, Amélie followed excitedly. This was fun; it was even better than playing hide and seek with some of the younger ballet rats.

Erik stared at the little girl walking a little unsteadily beside him, a little unsure of what he was doing. He had managed to stay out of her life for the past two years, only meeting Antoinette briefly once in a while to assure her that he was still alive, and yes, he still desperately wanted to get out of the opera house to travel the world. To be honest, Antoinette had also been busy with her practices, and he had not wanted to disturb her. She deserved the spot of _prima ballerina_, though he grudgingly admitted to her that La Célestin had been a superb dancer, flitting about as though she were flying on wings. He watched as the little girl innocently followed him to wherever he led her to.

When they arrived at the storeroom, he ushered her in, and she immediately ran about the room, trailing her hand over the rich fabrics of the costumes that hung in racks at the sides of the room, giggling happily. He sat down on a crate and watched her, quite unsure of how to proceed. Finally, she exhausted the supply of costumes, and obligingly ran back to his side, plopping herself onto the floor and staring up at him. He sighed; the dusty floor was no place for a little girl to be sitting.

"Would… would you like to sit somewhere else?" He tried to ask, his voice breaking slightly. She grinned happily, and tapped his knee. He stared down at his knee for a few seconds, before comprehending her. "Somewhere else, perhaps?"

She frowned, and shook her head, tapping his knee again. He wondered briefly if she was mute. That could not be, because he had often heard her girlish cries as she ran through the corridors of the opera house, chased by some other little girl in a game of tag. He watched as she set her mouth in an obstinate line, much like Antoinette when she was trying to force him to do something, and despite himself, a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. It seemed that Antoinette had a rather large influence on her. Erik stared at her, unmoved, and she stared back at him, pouting. It seemed they had reached something of an impasse. He sighed, and gingerly picked her up, balancing her on his knee as far as he possibly could without her completely falling off. Amélie giggled happily, and wriggled herself until she found a somewhat comfortable position on his bony knees.

Before Erik could respond, Amélie had turned, and with a curious expression on her face, tugged his mask off. His first instinct was to open his mouth to shout angrily, but one of her little chubby hands rose up to pat his deformed cheek gently. He had flinched, but now he reveled in her innocent touch.

"Hello. Tell me a story!" She demanded imperiously, as way of introduction. "I'm Amélie. Amélie-Rose."

It was rather late when Antoinette finally finished her practice, and she headed back to her dormitory, only to realize that Amélie was nowhere to be seen. A quick search around the area did not reveal any trace of Amélie, and after asking around, she discerned that Amélie had been missing for a good two hours of the evening. Nobody had seen her anywhere.

Almost frantic now, Antoinette dashed around the corridors, shouting for Amélie, and praying desperately to hear a reply from the little girl. She ran down the stairs to the unused storeroom, intent on asking Erik to help her look for the little girl. He might have seen her while he walked unseen through the opera house.

She had not been expecting to hear Erik's musical laugh resounding from the room. She frowned. _Has Erik finally gone mad, living by himself in this abandoned place?_ She crept closer to the door, pressing her ear to it cautiously, and to her immense puzzlement, she heard childish giggles emanating from behind the door. _Amélie?_

"Did the brave knight kill the evil dragon? Did he?"

"Yes, he did. He took his large sword, shiny and sharp, and he drove it straight into the stomach of the poisonous dragon that had captured his beautiful princess. Of course, the dragon died, and the knight was a hero."

"A hero!" Antoinette could hear the sound of clapping hands. "Did he manage to marry the princess, then? The beautiful princess?"

"He did, my little rose. He did. The king was so pleased with the knight that he gave his daughter's hand in marriage to the brave knight, and the two lived quite happily ever after."

Unable to control herself anymore, Antoinette opened the door. Erik looked up in both surprise and horror.

"Ah… Erik. There you are. I was looking for Amélie." Antoinette managed to choke out, trying her best to suppress her giggles. She was a little shocked, though. Amélie was clearly nestled quite comfortably in Erik's lap, and Erik's mask was balancing precariously on the edge of another crate. He hurriedly grappled for his mask, sliding it over his face. When Amélie saw Antoinette, she clambered off Erik's lap, and bounced up to Antoinette happily.

"He told me stories!" She announced to Antoinette, beaming excitedly. "Stories about princesses and dragons and knights!"

Antoinette had never seen a fourteen-year-old boy look so embarrassed before.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I got reviews and followers! I'm so, so happy. I literally smiled at my computer screen for ages after that! Thank you so, so much, my new readers and followers: **Guestie, Masked Man 2, icanhearthedrums, tarheelborn **& **Guest (Spirit of the Opera)**. I'm really glad that you enjoyed the story, and I hope I can continue to keep it up to your expectations!

Now because some of the reviewers asked, I thought I would clarify this.

My story is a mosaic of all the different Phantom of the Operas, be it ALW's musical, Kay's Phantom, or the original Leroux. I didn't stick to any particular version. Also, I rather disliked the idea of a 50-ish year old Erik being together with a barely 18 Christine, and therefore I tweaked many parts of the story to suit my own liking. Basically, Erik is approximately 10 years older than Amélie, and Christine only comes into the story slightly later, but she's a few years younger than Amélie.

Guestie: To be honest, I read the original novel ages ago, and I couldn't remember exactly which year it was set in, only that it was the 19th century, so I just picked a random year that I liked, hehe. Erik will be much younger in this story! (:

Masked Man 2: I think Amélie's really cute too! Haha! And yup, Antoinette Bellamy is Madame Giry, but at this point she isn't married yet.

Icanhearthedrums: Yes, Meg will definitely make an appearance, and so will Persia! Can't be missing our favourite blonde ballerina, can we? You'll see her soon, in a couple of chapters (:

Guest (Spirit of the Opera): I'm glad you liked it! I will continue, to the best of my abilities! Haha.

Well on with the story! I hope that new readers and old readers will review and let me know what they think about the story! I know chapters 1-2 were a little choppy and boring, but hopefully it will get better from here on (:

Last chapter was fluffy, and this chapter is (hopefully) rather sad.

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**Chapter 4: Departure**

_Paris, 1880_

Antoinette did not know it, but that day's events had burned a memory into Erik's mind, never to be forgotten. It was tucked safely into his store of precious memories, to be remembered and commemorated. It had been the day when a little girl, almost ten years younger than him, had accepted him wholeheartedly, even for that short time span of two hours. It was a memory that Erik would never forget in his lifetime.

It became somewhat of a habit for Amélie to sit, staring at the cracks in that particular wall while Antoinette practiced, waiting for Erik to arrive from the passageway in the wall. Sometimes he came, and sometimes he did not, but the times when he came were the happiest times for Amélie. Each time she travelled through the secret corridors, her hand held firmly in the boy's hand, she felt a thrill of excitement, as though she was embarking on an adventure. It did not matter that she had no idea who he was, or even what his name was. Amélie decided that she rather liked this boy and his stories. And every single time, Erik had a new story for her when they arrived at the storeroom. It was a time when the two of them could escape into their own little world of mystery and fantasy, free from the cruelties of the world that threatened to break Erik.

Despite Amélie's company, Erik longed to travel the world. He called it his wanderlust. He had read all the books available to read in the Palais Garnier, borrowed from the manager's office, or discovered in old dusty trunks in the numerous unused storerooms. Antoinette had sometimes spent a little of her small pay to purchase him some second hand books for him to peruse. He devoured them all greedily, and read about tales of the distant and unknown Persia, or the elegant and enigmatic China, exotic Russia, and many other countries. He wanted to visit them all. He was not sure as of how he was to get to all of them, but he knew he wanted to. He estimated himself to be around fourteen, grown up enough now to be travelling by himself. Erik had amassed himself a sizable amount, by picking up loose francs that members of the opera house had dropped every day, and, to Antoinette's extreme displeasure, by taking the francs that the manager sometimes absent mindedly left on his desk.

La Célestin was to leave after her next performance, and it had been declared that Antoinette was to take over her place. Antoinette would debut as _prima _ballerina in a week's time. Most of the _ballet_ _de corps_ were happy about the news, though there would always be the few jealous ones making snide remarks in the corner. Antoinette had secretly been exhilarated, but kept her joy under wraps for fear of seeming to be arrogant, and had merely smiled and thanked the members of the opera house who had stopped by to congratulate her. When La Célestin hugged Antoinette and promised to be back to watch her first performance, Antoinette accepted the hug gratefully. She would miss the former _prima ballerina_, and hoped only that she would be able to live up to La Célestin's high standards.

She was in one of the practice rooms one day when Erik entered silently, almost shocking her to death.

"Erik! Must you always creep about silently? Make some noise, for heaven's sake." She chided, but really, she was too happy to stay angry at him.

"There would be no more fun in that, Antoinette. Congratulations. I told you, you would get the role." He said smugly.

"And how would you have known that? Do you know something about ballet now, monsieur?" She teased.

"I know enough to know that you deserve that role." He said seriously. She bestowed him with one of her rare, wide smiles, turning back to the mirror to continue pushing pins into her unruly mane of blonde hair, which had been tamed into a bun.

"So, what's this about, Erik? A courtesy visit?"

"I've decided to leave, Antoinette."

She was so shocked that she dropped the pins in her hand. When she picked them up from the floor, her fingers were trembling slightly, and she dropped them again. Erik swooped in to pick them up for her, grasping them easily with his long bony fingers. He handed them to her silently.

"What have you decided to do now, Erik?" She prayed that she had heard him wrongly, but she knew that she was only lying to herself. "I thought I heard you say that you were leaving!"

"I am, Antoinette. I'm leaving."

She closed her eyes, willing this to be a dream. But when she opened them, she was still there in that practice room, and Erik still stood next to her. Deep in her heart, Antoinette had known that this day would come. Ever since that day two years ago when Erik had brought up his idea of leaving the opera house, Antoinette had noticed him becoming more and more restless as the days passed by. There was an innate need in Erik to travel around the world, and he would not drop the subject until that desire had been sated. She looked at the boy before her sadly. In the two years, Erik had shot up in height, and he now stood taller than her, slightly hunched. He was still just as thin, but the days of hauling himself up the ropes to walk along the catwalks, and lifting heavy weights like old boxes of props in the cellars he called home in an attempt to make the place more livable had created ropes of sinewy muscle beneath his skin.

"When will you be leaving?" She asked, the beginnings of tears prickling at her eyes.

He paused, before answering. "I thought I would leave tomorrow, Antoinette."

His tone was gentle, but Antoinette found it difficult to let the boy she had saved and been a companion to for four years leave. He caught her sniffling, a lone tear at the corner of her eyes, and he looked surprise.

"Do not cry, Antoinette. A _prima ballerina _cannot just cry like that." He chided. "I am hardly worth your tears."

"You'll not be here to watch my first performance as _prima ballerina_, then, Erik." She said dully. Erik stared at her, not knowing what to say. He could deal with angry Antoinette, but not a sad Antoinette. He had never known her to show much sadness in the four years since she had saved him. Antoinette had always been a symbol of grim determination, working hard to get to where she was in the ballet, never faltering and never showing fear to anybody.

"I will stay until your performance, Antoinette." He offered. "I'll leave only after your performance."

She looked down, obviously still displeased, but she knew that there was nothing she could do about it anyway. She nodded her head slowly, then left the room silently, leaving Erik alone.

XXXXX

A week passed, too quickly for Antoinette's liking. For Amélie, the week had been perfectly amazing because her masked friend visited her almost every day, and each day she sat with him in the store room for hours on end, listening to his melodious voice as he wove story after story for her.

The night of La Célestin's last performance arrived, and La Célestin retired after a wildly successful career and a final, brilliant performance on the stage, amidst roars of applause and cheers. She emerged on stage for the last curtain call, her arms full of roses, beaming from ear to ear, her pretty face radiant with happiness. The next night, Antoinette was to take her place.

Antoinette spent the night in a rather fitful sleep, even though she silently scolded herself, knowing that if she did not sleep well, her performance would suffer for it the next day. The first performance as the new _prima ballerina_ was of the utmost importance, for critics were often nasty and biting toward new stars who took the stage. If anything, she would do it for Erik. She would bring the house down, so that he could see her first successful performance before he left. With that thought in mind, she finally drifted off into blessed sleep.

When the morning sunlight at last streamed through the curtains in the room, Antoinette woke, a little uneasy. There were butterflies in her stomach, and she felt her hands curl into tight little wrists in anticipation of the night's performance. The room was already abuzz with the murmurings of the other ballet rats who had already risen, and Antoinette sighed, getting out of bed to ready herself for the final practices before everybody had to prepare for the night show. Antoinette wondered where Erik was, wondered if he had kept his promise to stay until after he had watched her performance. She had not seen him much over the week, perhaps a brief glimpse of him lurking around in darkened corridors, but Amélie's happy chattering each day was evidence that Erik was still around.

Minutes turned into hours, and soon enough, Antoinette was sitting in her new dressing room, lacing up her ballet slippers and checking on her costume, making sure that there were no large or visible rips. She wiped her suddenly clammy palms on the skirt, wishing that the butterflies would stop fluttering about in her stomach. Closing her eyes, Antoinette breathed deeply, trying to calm herself.

"Five more minutes, mademoiselle." The stagehand outside her door called, and Antoinette gave a little jump of fright, before calling out to acknowledge she had heard. The footsteps of the stagehand echoed away and Antoinette seated herself again on the chair before the dressing room table, breathing hard.

When the door creaked open again, Antoinette looked up in surprise, a little frantic. _Has five minutes already passed? It seems a little too short. I'm not ready!_

"You needn't worry so much, Antoinette. Really, you've been ready for this performance since ages ago." Erik stepped into the room, quickly closing the door behind him. Antoinette breathed a huge sigh of relief at his presence. His voice filled her with a certain soothing calm, and it made her feel a little more brave about stepping onto the stage for her first solo performance.

"Erik! You stayed." She tried not to sound too pleased, but the smile on her face betrayed her emotions. He smiled briefly, but said nothing. In the spur of the moment, Antoinette stepped up to him, giving him a quick hug around the waist, her eyes growing wet again. He stiffened, but he did not pull away, though he made no attempt to hug her back either. Antoinette only held the hug for as long as she thought she could, because of Erik's reluctance to be touched by anybody. When she stepped back, she carefully wiped at the corners of her eyes, trying not to mess up her makeup.

"Do not cry, Antoinette. You'll mess up your face." He said stoically, quietly. She gave him a watery smile, and turned to the mirror to make sure that she had not smudged anything on her face.

A knock on the door sounded, and the stagehand's voice came again, reminding her that there was only one minute left. Erik nodded toward the door.

"You'll do fine, Antoinette. I know you will."

She smiled again, another of those wide smiles that rarely made it to her face these days, before mouthing "thank you", and disappearing out the door, shutting it quickly behind her. Erik stared at the closed door for a few moments.

_I will never forget you, Antoinette. Thank you for caring for a monster who does not even have the courage to say goodbye properly._

Antoinette's performance ended with a deafening chorus of cheers and applause. Sweating slightly under the strong stage lights, it was all she could do not to faint of sheer relief that it was over. She looked out at the crowd, wondering if Erik had watched the performance, and what he had thought of it. As a ballet rat stepped forward to hand her a large bouquet of roses on stage, she accepted it gracefully, bowing to the loud audience. There was not a single person in the audience who would go home that night thinking poorly of the Palais Garnier's new _prima ballerina_.

Once the curtain finally fell, Antoinette rushed through the corridors, clutching the roses in her arms, ignoring the congratulatory shouts coming from all directions from admiring ballet rats, desperate to get to her dressing room and hoping that Erik would be there to say goodbye before he left. When she turned the doorknob though, she knew in her heart that Erik had most likely already left.

The room was empty as she had suspected. The only remnants of Erik's presence were a folded sheet of parchment on her dressing table, and next to it, a wooden music box with a tin princess in a red dress. A closer look revealed that the princess had russet hair made of thread, and bright blue eyes, painted on cleverly by nimble hands, and she was swathed in rich red fabric. Antoinette picked up the parchment with shaky hands. It was covered in Erik's thin, spidery script.

_Antoinette,_

_I have left. Do not worry for me, for I will be fine. Do not cry for me, either, for I am not worth your tears. I will never forget you. Please relay the gift to Amélie._

_You danced perfectly tonight. I kept my promise and watched._

_Farewell,_

_Erik_

Despite Erik's instructions, Antoinette sat down heavily on her chair, and cried. She wept for the boy she had come to view as a brother, not caring if she ruined her makeup, or that there would be questions asked later on.

Erik was gone.

XXXXX

Amélie did not understand where her masked friend had gone to. She had sat by the wall every day for a week, waiting for him to appear, but strangely, he had not. He had always appeared once every few days, never leaving her alone for more than a week. Confused, she leaned back against the wall and stared at the cracks.

Antoinette found her there an hour later, asleep. Her heart went out to the little girl, and she knew that she had to tell her of Erik's departure. She gently shook her awake.

"Come on, Amélie. Let's get you back to bed. It's time to sleep."

"But I want to wait for my friend!" Amélie protested, yawning sleepily. Antoinette swallowed a lump in her throat.

"Eri—your friend has left, Amélie. He has gone somewhere far, far away."

Amélie stared up at her with wide, unblinking eyes. "Far, far away? He has left?"

Antoinette nodded grimly, picking Amélie up in her arms and carrying her back to the dormitory room. Amélie put up a struggle at first, not wanting to leave the wall, but fatigue overcame her and she rested her cheek against Antoinette's shoulder.

When they reached the room, Antoinette set her down gently onto the bed. "Amélie, your friend has gone, but he left you a present to remember him by. Do you want it?"

Amélie nodded silently, nibbling on her thumbnail contemplatively. Antoinette cautiously brought out the little music box Erik had left with the note, placing it onto the bed next to Amélie. Amélie took one look at the little tin princess, clad in the bright red dress, before promptly bursting into tears.

For the next week, Amélie was completely inconsolable. Every day, she would go to the wall where she had once waited for Erik, and sit there for hours, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. The other ballet rats were puzzled. They could not fathom what had caused their little sunshine to cry all day long. Antoinette tried to brush off their worries by mentioning that Amélie was just having a case of the blues, but she knew that it had to stop soon. At the end of the week, she brought Amélie aside and firmly told her that she was not to go back to that wall.

"Your friend would have wanted you to enjoy his present and move on with your life, Amélie. Do you understand?"

She doubted that Amélie understood, but the little girl nodded her head anyway.

From then on, Amélie never returned to wait by the wall. She cherished her music box, winding it up only on special occasions to listen to the tinkling tune, before tucking it carefully back into one of the drawers in the chest next to her bed. Sometimes, Antoinette would catch the girl staring intently at the princess on the music box, a stray tear finding its way from her eye, before the little girl would swipe the tear away quickly in case somebody saw. But time would heal all wounds, and the girl would forget about Erik soon enough.

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A/N: Please review and let me know what you think! Any thoughts at all are very welcome. ~ xx Hazel


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I'm back! I'm really happy that I got more comments from you guys for the last chapter, (though I do wish I had more, please do say hi! It makes me happy!) so I decided to post up another chapter quickly. This chapter is more of a transition chapter, meant to get the story moving along, so it's not fluffy or sad, but perhaps rather boring. But stick with me please! I promise that more fluff will be in store!

DISCLAIMER: There is one line in this chapter that is from **G-Dragon's** new album. I really love quite a few of his new songs (any G-Dragon fans out there?), so bonus points and cookies to any body who can spot the line/guess which song it came from!

Thank you to new follower **PhantomHill**, I really appreciate it!

Guest (Spirit of the Opera): Thank you! And yes, of course Erik will come back! He's almost already back!

Guestie: I felt so sad while writing it :') We will learn about Erik's travels, but here I have fast forwarded it ten years!

Masked Man 2: Yay! Goal achieved! #achievementunlocked, and well, we'll see if Amelié remembers Erik or not! (;

To all new readers, please please please leave a review! Or anything! Favourite, follow, review... I would love to know what you think about the story. (Part of me actually suspects that less than ten people are actually reading it...)

I hope you enjoy this transitional chapter, boring though it may be!

xx Hazel

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**Chapter 5: Rekindling the past **

_Paris, 1892_

A lot had happened in ten years. The leaves on the trees had turned orange, had fallen, and then been covered by a layer of fresh snow as they lay abandoned on the streets each year without fail. As thirty-year-old Antoinette Giry walked up the stairs of the employees' entrance with a basket tucked in the crook of her elbow, she paused to look at the steps meaningfully, recalling that fond day so many years ago when she had first discovered little Amélie. The youthful eighteen-year-old Antoinette Bellamy of the past was no more, and in her place there was only Antoinette Giry, her blond hair pulled back tightly into a neat bun, clad in dour black widows' weeds.

Antoinette Giry made her way to the apartments in the opera house that she now lived in, and set the basket down on a table. She crossed over to her dressing table, and opened a drawer, pulling out a yellowed, ragged sheet of parchment that looked like it had seen better days. Smoothing out the crumpled paper, she scanned through the spidery writing again.

_Antoinette, I have left… Farewell, Erik._

Over the ten years, Antoinette had never stopped thinking of Erik. That letter had been her last point of contact with Erik, and she had never heard from him again. From time to time, she wondered if he was doing fine, if he was eating well, as he had always been so skinny, and she prayed that he was still alive. She did not doubt his strange, innate ability to stay alive despite the most difficult of situations, but then again, she did not expect life to be kind to Erik. Part of Antoinette feared that he was no longer in this world, but wherever he was, she hoped that he was safe.

Ten years. Antoinette had only been _prima ballerina_ for six months out of those ten long years.

Just one month after becoming _prima ballerina_, Antoinette had met Everard Giry, a new set painter at the opera house, talented and nimble with his fingers, creating brilliant backdrops for the productions the opera house put up. It had not been love at first sight, no, for Antoinette was too firm and rooted to confess anything romantic of the sort, but she had been very in love with Everard Giry, with his sandy brown hair and charming smile. When Everard Giry proposed not long after they first started courting, she had accepted immediately. Antoinette Bellamy was gone, and in her place there was now only Madame Giry.

It had only been a short six months of dancing solo on stage, before Antoinette had slipped and fallen down a slippery flight of stairs and broken her leg. It was only a slight fracture but the incident had been traumatizing for a young ballerina who had only just stepped onto the stage as _prima ballerina_. She had spent three agonizing months hobbling about with the help of a black cane. Debienne had assured her that once she was recovered, she would have her spot back as _prima ballerina_, but Antoinette had known then that her leg would probably never be the same again, and she would never dance with the same grace befitting that of a _prima ballerina_.

It had not mattered then, because while recuperating from her broken ankle, Antoinette had discovered that she was in fact, pregnant. It had been a happy event for the couple, and Antoinette had willingly tendered her resignation to the opera house. Debienne had been rather sorry to let her go, saying that if she wished to return, she could, and Antoinette had thanked him graciously, though they both knew it was rather unlikely, for Antoinette would be busy with the new baby.

Marguerite Lianne Giry, or Meg, as Everard had always called her affectionately, was born some seven months later in 1883, on a winter's day much like the day Antoinette had found Amélie, a squealing, red-faced baby with her mother's delicate features and blond hair, and her father's nose. To Antoinette, Marguerite was perfect.

And for a while, Antoinette had been happy. Everard brought home enough each month for the small family to live comfortably, and Antoinette did not miss her life at the opera house that much, though she did recall those days fondly, with an odd twinge in her heart. The only thing weighing on her mind occasionally would be Erik's whereabouts, but Antoinette reasoned with herself that she had no idea how to reach him in any case.

Then disaster had struck, and the stable, peaceful life that Antoinette had built up for herself had crumbled. Not long after Meg had turned two, on his way back home from work one day, Everard Giry had been mugged by robbers on the street, and when he had put up something of a fight, he had been stabbed by the robbers in their attempt to escape.

It had been early morning by the time somebody had discovered him in an alley, and by then, it was too late. A single silver crucifix had been found in one of Everard's inner pockets in his coat, with a scrawled note saying _Happy Birthday Annie_ tied to the chain. The gendarmes supposed that the robbers had ran after stabbing the man, and had not bothered to search his inner pockets for valuables. Antoinette had cried the whole day, not bothering to respond to the anxious knocks on the doors from her worried neighbours, or the baby's shrieks.

Just like that, Everard was gone. Antoinette had barely spent more than two years with him, when he was wrenched out of her life. She had wanted nothing more than to crumble, to collapse to the floor, and cry, but Meg's wails from the cot had given her the strength to stand again. She had a baby to feed now, and Meg was her last bit of Everard. Antoinette had risen with determination the next morning, dressed in a black gown, and then made her way to the opera house, where she met Debienne, asking him for a job.

Debienne, thankfully, had taken pity on the new widow with her small child, and told her that while she was too out of practice to be a ballerina any longer, she could be the ballet mistress's assistant. Madame Filbert was growing too old, and she would need the help to control the boisterous ballet rats during lessons. Antoinette had accepted gratefully.

When she had arrived back at the opera house, Amélie, who had just turned eight and had just entered the _corps de ballet_ as their newest, youngest dancer, had hugged her tightly, declaring that she had missed her greatly. Antoinette had returned the hug, grateful for the little girl's presence, and knowing that she was finally home again, in the opera house where she had grown up as a child herself.

Madame Filbert had retired after two years, claiming that the pain in her knees was too great, and she wanted nothing more than to enjoy the last few years of her life watching over her numerous grandchildren, living comfortably with her son who was a rather successful businessman. Antoinette had informed her landlord that she would be letting her small apartment go, and within a week, she had moved into the ballet mistress's quarters in the opera house, with Marguerite in tow. She had never looked back.

The years of toiling work in the opera house as the stern ballet mistress took Antoinette's mind off the grief she felt for Everard. She still missed him dearly, but the hurt and sadness she had felt ten years ago were not much more than a dull ache now. She still wore her black widow's gowns despite the mourning period being long over, partly out of respect for Everard, and also because she had no wish to entertain any more suitors.

Antoinette now looked down at the yellowed parchment and sighed. _Where are you now, Erik? Are you well?_

"Madame, are you in there?" A voice called. Antoinette recognized the voice, and called for her to enter.

"Madame, it is almost time for dinner. I thought you were not back yet." Amélie entered the room, with Meg following close behind.

"Amélie, Meg." Antoinette greeted them, tucking the letter back into the drawer and standing, brushing dust off her skirt. "Shall we head down now, then?"

XXXXX

"One, two, _assemblé_!" Antoinette moved around the room, correcting postures and giving the ballerinas advice. "Again, girls! That was one of the worst attempts I've ever seen from you." She tapped her cane sharply on the floor. Antoinette had grown rather attached to the cane that she had used when she had broken her leg, and she found that it also gave her somewhat of an authority over the girls. A single tap of her cane was enough to make the girls scramble to line themselves up neatly before the mirror.

Antoinette noted Meg and Amélie's dancing proudly. The two were quite easily the best dancers amongst the ballet rats around their age in the company. Meg twirled gracefully, light on her feet, resembling her mother from many years past. They were Antoinette's pride and joy.

"Oh goodness me, has practice started already? I'm only five minutes late!" A voice came from beyond the door, and Sorelli burst into the room, her black hair streaming behind her. Antoinette eyed her sternly.

"Being_ prima ballerina_ does not excuse you from my rule of punctuality, Sorelli. You will not be late again, yes?"

"Ah, Antoinette, always the strict one. Come on, Antoinette, I'm only five minutes late!" Sorelli chuckled, pinning her hair into a bun as she made her way to an empty spot in the dance room. Antoinette glared at her, and she giggled.

"All right, all right. I won't be late again! Though if you would just start practice a little later…" She trailed off as Antoinette glared at her again, and gave her a sheepish smile.

When practice was over, Antoinette clapped her hands sharply. "Today's practice was slightly better than yesterday's girls. However, you all have the potential to be even better, and I do not want to see any form of laziness from you lot! Now, I want to see better from all of you tomorrow! You're dismissed."

The ballet rats swept out of the room, chattering to each other about the latest gossip. Amélie linked an arm through Meg's and walked with her out of the room, the two babbling about the newest fashions in town. Antoinette watched them as they walked out and smiled a little wistfully, remembering her past as a ballet rat. She was glad that Amélie and Meg had become fast friends, and that Amélie was truly happy in the opera house.

Honestly, Antoinette was glad that Amélie had few recollections of Erik. When Antoinette had cautiously asked her about it a few years back, Amélie confessed to remembering a friend who had told her stories once when she was a child, but she did not remember what he looked like at all, or what he sounded like. Her childish impressions of him had faded with time. Amélie had told Antoinette that though she barely recalled even what he sounded like, she did remember that he had had a soothing, musical voice that had appealed to her as a child. For that, Antoinette was glad. She did not know how she would have managed the matter if Amélie had still been pining away for Erik, especially since she did not know if Erik was even still alive.

As Antoinette followed the girls to the dining room, a loud shriek stopped her in her tracks. The opera house employees started to murmur curiously, wondering what the fuss was all about. A crowd was forming somewhere in front already.

Antoinette pushed her way to the front, where Régine, a ballet rat not much older than thirteen, stood, being supported by her friends, her face pale.

"What's going on? What happened, Régine?" Antoinette demanded sharply. "Did you see a ghost perhaps?"

At that, the girl gave a loud squeal, and keeled over in a dead faint. Her friends gasped, trying to hold onto her dead weight, and Antoinette sighed. The ballet rats were often prone to hysterics, and she wondered what had caused this one to faint.

"Bring her to her room, I'll stay with her while the rest of you eat your dinner." She gestured to one of the stagehands standing around, who obligingly lifted the prone girl and carried her back to her dormitory room. Antoinette followed behind a little warily, feeling rather strange, as though somebody was watching her.

She had not felt that same feeling in ten years.

Antoinette shuddered. _It can't be._

After the stagehand had laid the girl on her bed and Antoinette had dismissed her, she pulled up a chair next to the bed, and digging in a drawer, pulled out a bottle of smelling salts which she waved unceremoniously under the girl's nose. The girl woke with a splutter, blinking around wildly.

"Calm yourself, child. It is only me." Antoinette snapped. "Whatever could have happened that made you faint and caused a commotion?"

"Oh, madame! Madame Giry! I-I… I saw a ghost!" The girl choked out, looking around, with a terrified expression upon her pale face. "I was walking to the dining room when suddenly I saw a swish of a black cloak, and a ghost stepped out of the walls!"

"There is no such thing here in this opera house, Régine. I've been here since I was eight, and I've never even seen any trace of such a ghost. It must have been a stagehand hiding in the shadows waiting to scare you." Antoinette tried to dismiss the idea, even though there was a niggling suspicion growing in the back of her mind.

"Madame! I swear, it was a ghost! After I screamed, the.. the shape… its body… oh, I do not know what to call it! The ghost turned and walked straight back into the wall!" At that, the girl gave another little shriek and slumped back upon her pillows. Antoinette stared at the girl in distaste. The ballet rats were really becoming more prone to hysterics. _Learning from La Carlotta, the lot of them!_

Still, Antoinette was suspicious. Despite the ballet rats' tendencies to blow up and dramatize matters, it seemed strange for one of them to suddenly spout nonsense about a ghost when there had never been such stories before. _What if..? _She shook her head firmly, reminding herself that it was best not to give herself false hope. She had hoped, rather too many times over the past ten years, and each time that hope had been dashed. Hope was the parent of disappointment and despair.

Deep in her thoughts, Antoinette found herself walking down the flight of steps leading to the old, unused storeroom where she had met weekly with Erik so many years ago, gripping a lantern tightly in her free hand. She looked at the door, its paint peeling and chipped, and remembered a time when she had once heard happy laughter coming from the room within. _I had never heard you laugh before then, Erik._

How many times had she walked down this flight of stairs in the last ten years to arrive at the door, only to open it to find an empty room and then chide herself for being silly? _This will be the last time, then. I'll open this door, and there's going to be nobody inside, and I'll leave and never come back to this place again._

With that promise to herself in mind, Antoinette grasped the door handle firmly, and turned it.

The room was empty, as it had been since the day Erik had left ten years ago.

Antoinette was not sure whether or not to feel disappointed, or relieved. She sighed, not knowing what she had expected anyway. She slowly closed the door, feeling extremely tired.

When she turned, her eyes met a very intent, green eyed gaze in the corridors; a very familiar set of green eyes that she would have recognized anywhere.

Antoinette gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

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A/N: I hope this isn't too much of a cliffie. Please read, review, let me know what you think! If I get new reviewers, I'll post up a new chapter quickly (: It gives me motivation to write!


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I got one new reviewer, which makes me really happy, so I'm posting up a new chapter quickly! I will only be posting every Monday/Tuesday from now on though as I can't write fast enough to keep posting every few days! So be sure to come back every Monday/Tuesday to check out the new chapter. Any chapters posted earlier than that will be bonuses if I get lots of new reviews/readers.

I noticed from my traffic stats that Chapters 1 and 5 had the most views and the chapters in between had practically none, which makes me really sad, since people are probably reading the first chapter and deciding not to continue ): If any new readers are looking at this, please read beyond chapter 1! I promise the following chapters are better!

This new chapter has a lot of dialogue, so it looks as though it is in Erik's POV. I thought that might be a nice way to write this chapter.

Dana: Hehe cliffies ftw.

icanhearthedrums: Well, new chapter is up! I'm glad you found chapter 4 sad.

Spirit of the Opera: He's back! (:

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**Chapter 6: Giovanni & Luciana **

_Paris, 1892_

The two of them stood, silently, staring at each other. Antoinette could feel her heart beating wildly in her chest. She blinked a few times, to assure herself that it was not an apparition, a figment of her imagination, but no, the figure remained there.

"Erik?" She breathed, her voice barely whisper. "Erik, is that you?"

The figure made a soft, strangled sound, and turned to leave so quickly that Antoinette would have lost him had she not been expecting him to flee. She strode after him.

"Erik, please! It's Antoinette!" She said urgently. "Erik, is that you?" In her haste, she almost tripped over her own feet, and let out a little gasp. The figure stopped, and turned. Antoinette looked into his green eyes again, and saw for a moment, concern, before it was quickly replaced by a cold feeling of distance.

"Erik. Please." She said softly. The figure stepped closer to her, and she saw, for the first time, the boy she had saved so many years ago from a gypsy camp. He was tall now, much taller than she was. He was still skinny, and his skin still pale. His hair was no longer the unkempt messiness it had been when he was a boy, but rather combed and smoothed back neatly upon his head. He looked so different now, a man, and yet, there was that familiar white leather mask placed over the right side of his face, and those deep green eyes, their depths flickering mysteriously in the candle light emanating from the lantern Antoinette held. It was Erik. There was no doubt about it.

When he opened his mouth to speak, Antoinette swallowed a lump in her throat. Had she been prone to hysterics like the ballet rats, she would most probably have fainted. She could not believe that after ten years of hoping, he was standing before her again. His voice was exactly the way she remembered it, musical, rich, but the deep voice of a man now instead of that of a young boy's.

"Hello, Antoinette." He bowed deeply. Then, he swept past her with a swish of a black cloak, making his way into the storeroom, before turning and beckoning for her to enter as well. Antoinette entered a little hesitantly.

Once inside, she hooked her lantern onto a hook in the wall, and turned to look at Erik expectantly. He looked back at her silently, reminding her of the numerous times she had met him as a young boy, attempting to coax some conversation out of him. Strangely, Antoinette felt a little burst of anger bubble up inside her.

"Where have you been, Erik? For the past ten years? You left, and you never wrote a note, and I had no idea if you were dead or alive! Have you any idea of the grief you made me experience over the last ten years? Where have you been?" Antoinette realized that her voice was growing steadily louder and shakier as she spoke. "Tell me, Erik. Tell me! What was so important that you had to leave me praying for you daily, every day, for ten years? Ten years! Ten!"

His lips thinned in the same manner as it had so many years ago, his way of showing his displeasure. "I told you I was leaving, Antoinette. I told you I was leaving. I was not a child any longer! You did not have to bother about me! If you knew, if you only knew what I have gone through these ten years, you would not blame me for not sending word to you!" He laughed bitterly. "Oh, if only I could have sent word while I was under the influence of drugs, killing men daily like I had a right to! You cannot blame me for not sending word to you, Antoinette! You cannot!"

His last words ended on a thunderous roar. Antoinette winced slightly.

"I cared for you, Erik! I worried about you." She said, a little more sharply than she had intended. Erik's words had hurt her slightly. Ten long years of worry and anxiety, and it seemed that Erik had reduced her to a silly girl who had spent too long worrying over somebody who had not wanted that concern in the first place.

Erik inhaled slowly. "I know, Antoinette. I know." His voice was soft, but undeniably tinged with guilt.

Antoinette closed her eyes briefly, willing her angry tears to dissipate. "Erik, will you tell me what you have been doing for the past ten years? I have a right to know. Please, Erik."

He looked at her, his eyes filled with sadness, but he gestured to her to take a seat, before lowering himself onto a crate as well. Where a little boy had once sat comfortably on the crate, a grown man now sat on it, dwarfing the crate with his tall height and long limbs. He looked almost out of place in this room. Antoinette noticed that he wore a black cloak over a well tailored black suit.

"Where would you like me to start, Antoinette? It has been a rather long ten years, hasn't it?" He said a little unwillingly. She sensed that he was not comfortable with revealing his past, much like he had not been when she had first saved him.

"Start wherever you would like, Erik." She said simply.

"Will you judge me for what I have done, Antoinette?" He raised an eyebrow nonchalantly, but Antoinette knew that despite his pretending not to care what she thought, deep down, one of his greatest fears had been, and would always be, being shunned by the people around him.

She shook her head gently.

"You know I would never judge you for what you've done, Erik. I just want the truth."

He nodded. He looked relieved.

"When I left, I travelled around France for a short while. I had no idea where I would go next, but my travels led me to Rome eventually, perhaps a year after I had left. It was a beautiful place, Antoinette. If only you had seen it. The great stone-hewn buildings, so tall and majestic… it was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen in my pitiful fourteen years of life. One morning, before anybody was about, I climbed up a half completed building. From my vantage point at the peak of the structure, I could see almost all of Rome, and it was just as beautiful as I had imagined. I could feel the cool morning air upon by face, and beneath my hands, I will never forget, the glorious touch of rough stone, chilled by the morning dew, cold, and yet solid warmth under my fingertips. It was perhaps, the most amazing thing I had ever touched.

I was discovered by a man as I stood there. He was the main stonemason in charge of the project, and he had awoken early to go to the site, only to discover a boy upon the top of his building. He shouted at me to get down as it was dangerous, and I climbed down, ready to bolt. He called out to me, and something in his voice made me turn. His voice was kind and warm and genuine, Antoinette. I had never had anybody else speak to me that way before, besides you.

I turned and he made his way over to me. He asked me who I was, and I told him, 'Erik', but nothing else. And Giovanni, that was his name, as he told me later, he offered me a place in his home, lessons under his tutelage, and a job at the construction site. For the first time in my life, Antoinette, I had a job. A real job, just like a real man. Can you imagine that, Antoinette?" He paused for a moment, and Antoinette could see him recalling the past, with a fond look in his eyes. He laughed bitterly for a moment, before continuing his story.

"I should have known though, that a person like me would not have deserved to have such happiness in his life. Oh yes, I was happy, for that short number of months when I lived with Giovanni. He treated me like the son that he had never had, and I was more than willing to live under that facade. It gave me a chance to live a life that I would never have had otherwise.

It all changed one summer when Giovanni's youngest daughter Luciana arrived back for the holidays from her convent school. Luciana was young, precocious, and she was used to having her own way. She was beautiful, Antoinette. I know not any other word to describe her. Her hair was as black as raven's wing, and her eyes a rich brown. She took a fancy to me somehow, and I was alarmed. She was but a child, yes, only a couple of years younger than I was, but still very much a child at heart indeed. I tried my best to stay away from her, to avoid her as much as I could, but she would find ways to enter my room, to try to attract my attention."

Antoinette eyed him warily. She doubted that this story would have a happy ending, from the way Erik's voice seemed to be growing more melancholy. "She… she loved you, then?"

He laughed. It was a cold, sharp laugh that was very unlike what she had heard from him when he had told Amélie stories so many years ago. Antoinette shivered despite it not being cold at all.

"Love, Antoinette? A man like me was not worthy of her love. No, she did not love me. She loved the _idea _of me, the idea of a strange, mysterious man in a mask. She fell in love with the picture she painted of me in her mind.

Her arrival set off a domino chain of effects, and one day, the one thing that I had feared finally happened. I was telling Giovanni that the stones on the balustrade would have to be re-mortared as the stone was old and damaged. I told him they had to be changed! I warned him, I told him it was dangerous!" Here, Erik's voice increased slightly in pitch, his carefully managed voice wavering slightly. Antoinette could see his hands clenched into fists upon his knees, clenched so tightly they were turning white.

"Luciana… she grew tired of me avoiding her. She asked, no, _demanded_, that I remove my mask. And Giovanni, that fool of a man… he too had grown weary of Luciana's constant obsession with me despite my attempts to avoid her, and he advised me to remove my mask. We had had a mutual silent agreement, he and I, that he would never ask me to remove my mask for as long as I stayed under his roof.

And just like that, Antoinette, my fairy tale was broken. I did not want to remove my mask, but what choice did I have? I removed it."

Erik closed his eyes, his expression etched with pain, and Antoinette was almost afraid to ask what had happened next.

"As I said, Luciana had fallen in love with the image of me that she had in her mind, that childish girl. She had expected the man behind the mask to look, at the very least, the same as the left side of his face. She had been expecting a handsome man! She was not expecting a grotesque demon to look her back in the eye. She screamed. I will never forget that scream, Antoinette. She screamed, and she backed away, and I tried, I tried to warn her! I tried to stop her, but when she saw me advancing, she screamed again, and backed away even faster, and she hit the balustrade. The balustrade that I had warned Giovanni to replace. She hit it, and the stone gave way, and she fell, Antoinette, she fell! Luciana died that night, and I left the next morning.

Giovanni did not say a word as he went about Luciana's funeral preparations. He claimed that he did not blame me for what had happened, but how was I to stay by a man's side when I had claimed the life of his daughter? That was the first innocent life I had taken, Antoinette. The first of many."

"It was not your fault, Erik." Antoinette looked at him sadly.

His response was sharp and curt. "Is that pity I see in your eyes, Antoinette? I will not have pity, no! Not from you of all people! I do not need _pity_!" He sneered.

"I do not pity you, Erik. I only mourn for your lost happiness." _Ah yes, that damnable pride that stops him from accepting consolation or pity from others has not changed over the years._

"Yes, well." He said briskly, as though she had not said anything. "Despite it being '_not my fault'_, as you say, I had to leave anyway. I could not stay any longer in the place where a life had been taken because of me. So I left Giovanni, left the only man in my life who had been kind to me, offered me his knowledge, his home, and his affection. I repaid him with the death of his favourite daughter. After I left, I travelled further, bringing myself from place to place, but never staying long enough to attract too much attention, and never staying long enough to form any sort of tangible, lasting bonds with people. I had learned that it was not worth the heartache.

I performed at sideshows, on the street, anywhere, really. Magic tricks, ventriloquism, singing, art… I did them all, Antoinette. Those books that you bought for me back then came in extremely useful." A rare ghost of a smile wafted on his lips. "I have you to thank for my continued success as a performer, Antoinette.

Eventually, I earned enough to buy a horse. Previously, much of my travel was done by foot, or whenever I could manage to sneak onto a train unseen. I bought a tent and a horse with my earnings, and I managed to get by. I did this for four years, maybe. I did not keep track of time.

It constantly bothered me that I was not doing anything with my life. I was performing, setting my own show up within my tent, being poked fun of by some of the audience who sniggered behind their hands about my mask, but what kind of life was that, Antoinette? There was nothing, nothing of my dreams. Where was the music, the great opera pieces that I would write? Where were the buildings, the stone, the beauty that I wanted to create? I lived but a meaningless life.

Perhaps it was fate, then, that one day, when I had finished up my last show, a man entered my tent. I was in Russia then. His skin was brown, and his eyes were jade green. I had never seen him before, and he looked fatigued with travel, his clothes dusty from long rides on the roads. He looked as though he had travelled a long way to meet with me. Part of me was intrigued, surprised even, that anybody would go to such extents just to meet me. Me, of all people!

It seemed that the news about my performances had travelled far and beyond, to the exotic shore of Persia. I had tried to keep myself moving, to avoid detection, and to reduce any sort of attention I gained, but that man managed to track me down, and I was impressed. I was young, and foolish, perhaps. I was eager to carve out the life that I had dreamed of for myself. When he offered me a job in Persia, a job offered by the Shah of Persia himself to be his personal architect, I accepted it.

That man was Nadir Khan, the _daroga_, or police chief of Persia, and he would later become my conscience, and my savior."

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A/N: Well, how was it? (: Please read, review, favourite, follow, whatever! Let me know you're reading and enjoying, it means a lot to me! (:


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Up with the newest instalment of the story! We are still in the midst of the telling of Erik's life in the past 10 years, so bear with me. I hope you're not finding this too boring! It has a teeny bit of Antoinette/Erik fluff, because I love the idea of them being good friends. Amélie/Erik fluff will come in the next chapter, so stay tuned for that!

To new followers: **AssassinaAquila** & **Winter Elvish Rose** (such a pretty name) thank you so much! Please do leave a review behind if you like the story, I really enjoy reading reviews.

icanhearthedrums: I'm not sure if he will be making an appearance very soon, but I think I will put in the _daroga_ sometime into the story (:

Dunedan Ranger: I try my best to make sure the grammar is alright! I'll keep that in mind, thank you!

Guest (Spirit of the Opera): I'm glad you like the story so far (:

Masked Man 2: Haha don't worry about it! I'm just glad you reviewed. I actually tried reading it aloud like you said, and it _was_ fun.

To all new/old readers, please leave me a review/favourite/follow! It makes me happy! One thing really puzzles me; it's that chapters 2-4 have much lower views than all the other chapters o_o It comes across as rather strange to me as chapters 3-4 are my favourite chapters...

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**Chapter 7: The Rosy Hours of Mazenderan**

_Paris, 1892_

In the dim lamplight, it was hard to discern Erik's expressions. And if it had been any other person, that person would have observed that Erik sat, perfectly still, calm and composed. But Antoinette knew all too well the telltale signs of Erik's real discomfort at telling his story—his fists were clenching and unclenching upon his knees, the corners of his mouth were tight, and his body was tight with tension.

"What was Persia like, Erik?" Antoinette asked gently. "Was it as exotic and vibrant as the books we had read described it to be? The palaces, the harems, the Shahs… jeweled buildings, bazaars…"

Erik shuddered visibly. "It was… a beautiful place, Antoinette… and yet, the ugliest place I had ever been to. It was exotic and cruel at the same time. I longed to stay, and yet every part of me was clawing to escape the place." He closed his eyes, thinking of the painful memories. "I don't think I will ever forget the screams of those who died by my own hands."

His voice was barely a whisper.

"Those who died… by your hands?"

"Yes, Antoinette. I was not joking when I said that I had killed. It was the first time I killed not for self-defense, but for the perverse pleasure of the Sultana." He stared at his hands, as though they were gruesome objects, and not the finely-boned elegant hands that they were. "Do you know the feeling, Antoinette? No, I don't suppose you do. The first time… as I felt the bone crack beneath my hands… as the body went limp, and all the life drained out of it..." His voice was hoarse and cracked.

Antoinette closed her eyes, partly in horror, and partly in regret. The pained voice and expression should not have belonged to a young man who was probably barely twenty-four. Erik sounded far older than his actual age.

"You should fear me, Antoinette. You should fear what I've become! I am a _murderer_. Yes, you close your eyes in horror! I could kill you right here now in this room, and nobody would ever know! I have _murdered_ in cold blood!" Erik snapped, his green eyes flashing, a sudden mood swing for the worse. He stood, and stalked around the room once before sitting back down again, clenching his fists. "I thought perhaps there would be a place in this world for me, but no! No! I am nothing but a cold-hearted murderer, a monster! Fear me now, Antoinette! Yes, run! Run for your life!"

"Will you keep quiet for a moment, Erik? Listen to yourself! You sound like a five year old child throwing a tantrum!" Antoinette shouted at him. "I have not said _one_ word about judging you or fearing you, and I will thank you not to throw such accusations into my face!"

Erik looked at her in surprise, before his expression closed up again. Antoinette walked over to him and sat next to him slowly, drawing him close in an awkward hug. He said nothing, but allowed her to hug him.

"Oh, Erik." She said softly. "You will always, _always_, be that boy I saved from the gypsies twelve years ago. You will always be that boy I saw, who fought for a chance to live a life of his own, who finally stood up for himself. I may not approve of what you have done these past ten years, but you will always be my brother, Erik."

She could feel Erik's thin body shuddering slightly, and the wetness of tears on her shoulders. When he pulled back a second later, he swiped a hand over his eyes quickly, to hide his tears.

"I suppose you will be wanting to know all about Persia, too." He said dully. And despite herself, Antoinette laughed.

"Yes, Erik. Tell me the stories about Persia, just like how you used to tell me the stories from the books you'd read. You do remember, don't you?" As she said that, his eyes softened a little, but the corners of his mouth remained tense.

"I do not want to go into details, Antoinette, because it was a part of my life that I regret, a part that I do not want to dwell on any longer. When the _daroga_ proposed to me to leave Russia and travel to Mazenderan, my heart leapt for joy. I thought that I was being given an opportunity at last to show the world what I could do. I blame my own childish dreams and aspirations for having given me that false hope. I declined him politely, knowing that he would still be back the next morning to beg me to go. He looked desperate enough to do that. I do not know why I rejected him at first; perhaps I wanted him to come back to plead for me to go. It was a novel experience, Antoinette. No one has ever _wanted_ me to go anywhere with them.

The next morning, he was indeed back, and this time I agreed. I'd never seen a man look so relieved before, and perhaps that was an indication of what was yet to come for me. I was too foolish then to have recognized that look of relief for what it was.

I travelled to Mazenderan, and received a welcome like no other. Imagine it, Antoinette. A gleaming palace, made of gold and encrusted with precious stones. I stepped through the gates of the royal gardens, and there were lush topiaries depicting all sorts of animals, their vivid green leaves fresh with morning dew and gleaming in the sunlight. The large ripping ponds teeming with fish that seemed to be made of silver and gold; their scales sparkled so in the morning light. The ornate metal benches scattered throughout the gardens, their thin metal curlicues covered with semi precious gems. The rooms were carpeted thickly with handmade Persian rugs, soft and yielding to the touch. Diaphanous silk hangings covered doorways, with golden rope to hold them back, hanging with elaborate gold-embroidered tassels in a spectrum of colour. The walls, covered in numerous tapestries, or painted with intricate, twisting patterns that were bedazzling to the eye. It was all very gaudy, very ostentatious, very showy. It was ugly, Antoinette, but it was fascinating at the same time.

And for once in my life, I was _excited_.

I should have known, that what lay in store for me would have been nothing less than horror and torture. I will not mince my words, Antoinette. I was to be the Shah's personal architect, magician, but despite the grand facade I was accorded, the richly decorated rooms and the so-called position of honour I held in the Shah's court, I was but a slave. A slave to the Shah's whim, or more accurately, to his mother's whim.

The Shah, Majid Sanjar, was scarcely older than I was, and his mother, the Sultana, had him in her grasp like the strings of a marionette in a puppet master's clever hands. He lived to please her, to adore his mother and to give her all that she asked him for. After all, how could he refuse? She was his only mother, the one who had given him life, and as the Shah, he was in the position to grant her all her heart desired.

They nicknamed me the 'Angel of Death'. How apt it is, Antoinette, that I should be an _angel_, but bring only _death_. The name is not so different from what the gypsies called me, isn't it?"

"They… they saw you, then? Without the mask?"

"It was not by my own choice. The Shah had commanded me remove it, but I gave him an ultimatum—the mask would stay, or I would leave. One night as I was preparing for bed, the Sultana arrived in my chambers unannounced, and her guards grabbed hold of me. I struggled, naturally, but she reached out quickly and removed my mask. I shouted at her, but she only smiled. Her guards themselves were wincing, and turning their faces away from me even as they fought to hold onto my struggling body. She approached me and ran one hennaed hand down my face, her red talons glinting. When she spoke, her voice was _excited_. She told me, 'Ah yes, you will be my personal servant, my precious Angel of Death.'"

"And what was your role?" Even though she asked that question, Antoinette could guess the horrors that Erik had had to go through.

"I was but another puppet to join her marionette collection. I had to obey her every whim, or face death. The Sultana _thirsted_ for death. She wanted to feel the adrenaline of a kill, the triumph of a death, but she did not want to dirty her hands doing the job by herself. She wanted _me_ to do it. I built everything for her, Antoinette, her torture devices, chambers meant to confuse and drive a person to madness, weapons… By day, I was the Shah's honoured architect, and by night, I was the Sultana's personal assassin. To the people in the palace, I was the foreigner, the evil one, the bringer of death. I was feared."

He pulled out a length of catgut from a pocket, and wound it around his fingers almost tenderly. "The _Punjab_ lasso, Antoinette."

"The…_Punjab _lasso?"

"Yes. Keep your hand at the level of your eyes, Antoinette, for if you ever feel the sting of the rope around your neck, know that you will not live to see the next sunrise again."

"Well then, I shall pray fervently that I will never experience that sensation." She said dryly.

He laughed hollowly. "I owe you too much, Antoinette."

"You owe me nothing, you silly boy. If anything, you owe me a good explanation for why you never contacted me in the past ten years, so you'd better get a start on that explanation now." She told him firmly.

"Ah, Antoinette. You haven't changed." He pocketed the length of catgut again. "Very well. I shall continue. The _Punjab_ lasso was my favourite weapon, Antoinette. There is no blood, no gore, nothing. The first time the Sultana forced me to kill somebody with a knife, I scrubbed my hands raw for hours afterward, wanting to rid myself of the stain of blood. The blood was long gone, but it left a mark on my hands forever. From then on, I would only use the _Punjab_. The firm crack of bone, and nothing more.

I wanted to get away. I couldn't. By day, I oversaw the construction of one of the finest palaces that Persia had ever seen. The Shah wanted it to be gaudy, loud, expensive. It was ugly, but even so, I did not mind, because I was in charge of constructing it. I had the chance to touch the rough stone, the smooth marble, to hold the blueprints in my hands. By night, I was forced by the Sultana to perform her bloodthirsty deeds for her. She was never satisfied. With every creation of a new weapon, a new gimmick for her pleasure, there came yet more demands for novel things to keep her attention. I worked tirelessly upon a maze of mirrors for her, the most ingenious torture chamber the world had ever seen. Nobody would survive it.

I _hated_ it, Antoinette. I hated the screams, the shouts, the fear that followed me _everywhere_. The _stench_ of the blood that lingered long after. The truth that I had taken life after life, snuffing out the breath in so many people that I did not even know. What right did I have to end their lives? It was a cruel, never-ending experience. It was hell on earth."

"Why didn't you stop? Why didn't you just leave?"

"Ah, Antoinette. Such naive thoughts. The truth was that I _couldn't_ leave, even if I wanted to. The Sultana kept me drugged on hashish, and I was so deluded, so enraptured in my own delirium most of the time that I barely questioned what she asked me to do. I simply did it. I fought against the haze of the drug, but a mortal body can only do so much, Antoinette. In my mind, I was clawing to be free of the cage that the drugs had formed around me, but in reality, I could not even stop myself. I hated myself for it. I wanted so desperately to end my pathetic life.

In those moments of sanity, the _daroga_ was my only form of conscience. He felt that he perhaps owed me that much. The _daroga_ had a young son, not older than ten, who was suffering from a deadly disease. He slowly wasted away in the time that I was in Persia, and my heart broke for the child, so weak, yet so full of life. Yet in the end, I killed him. I ended his suffering, Antoinette, for the child was suffering and it broke my heart. Just like that, I took the life of another innocent child. The _daroga_ knew that it had to be done, even thanked me for helping his son, claiming that he owed me a debt forever, but a part of me wonders if he will always view me as his son's murderer.

In any case, he was my only— and it may be pushing it to even term him as that— friend. We played chess; I always won. We talked about my dreams for the future, about what I had hoped to have achieved in my life. Music, architecture, art. The things that had been so cruelly denied to me the moment I stepped foot into Persia. It was a pity that those moments of sanity were so rare."

"How did you leave, then? How did you get back to France again?"

"The breaking point came when the Shah's palace was completed. He thought he would order my eyes put out, that I would never be able to make another palace as glorious as the one I had made for him, for another king. But he reasoned that I could easily do so even without my eyes, and that was when he gave the order to terminate my life forever.

If it were not for Nadir, the _daroga_, I would not be here talking to you, Antoinette. He smuggled me out of the palace, onto a ship heading for France, and there I hid in my cabin, until the ship docked in France. The journey was torturous and painful. I suffered the effects of not having the drugs in my system any longer, and there was many a night when I wished that I would be put out of my misery by a quick death. When the ship docked, I stole away to the opera house, and entered through one of the secret entrances I discovered when you first brought me here."

He stood up and walked away from her. "And there you have it, Antoinette. Now you know. I sold my soul for an opportunity to construct a palace for a man and his mother, whom I wish were dead and cold in their graves." His words were cold, and flat. "You can run now."

"Oh, Erik." Antoinette did not have any words to say. She knew she would not be able to comfort him, and her words would be empty and insincere anyway. She walked over to him and placed a hand onto his shoulder, using the gesture to show him that she would not run. He shuddered. "What will you do now?"

"I intend to make the opera house my home, Antoinette." Erik said simply.

"How will you make that happen?"

"I'll find a way. You know I will. That girl up there that I scared gave me some ideas…"

"Will you be alright here by yourself? I have to get back up before anyone notices me missing."

"You don't have to fuss over me like I'm a child any longer, Antoinette. I'm no longer a boy."

Antoinette nodded her head, and made a move to leave. She had to get back before anybody realized that she had been gone for quite some time. She did not want anybody searching for her, for fear that they would chance upon Erik and reveal his location.

"Antoinette?"

She turned. "What is it, Erik?"

"I know I never said this properly to you… but thank you."

And for the first time in ten years, Antoinette saw a real, genuine smile on Erik's face, even though it was fast, fleeting, and only very slight. She nodded in return, and left the room.

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A/N: Next chapter will contain fluff. Please read/review/favourite/follow/let me know whether you like it! xx


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Whew... I just had my first day of my vacation job and boy am I dead on my feet! Meanwhile, here is chapter 8!

Guest: Hello! :D

icanhearthedrums: Nope, I don't think I'll keep his drug addiction going; I wrote a small line on how he suffered the after effects of cold turkey on the boat to Paris, and I think I'll keep it at that! (: I don't have too much experience with drug abuse, so I don't think I could write a very convincing morphine-addict Erik. (:

Masked Man 2: I'm glad you enjoyed it! Your comments always make me feel great about writing. To be honest though, I can't take credit for the Sultana being the mother- I'm pretty sure quite a few fanfics have that too, and probably Kay! (I can't remember about Kay though). It does make a _lot_ more sense to me for the _mother_ to be Sultana though, because I doubt a father, no matter how indulgent, would let his daughter build a torture chamber etc. Plus, being so evil tends to come with a bit of age and experience, I guess. (:

To new followers/favouriters: **Dundedan Ranger **& ** 302**, thank you so much! (:

To all readers, please read/review/favourite/follow/let me know what you think! 3

xx hazel

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**Chapter 8: Princess Rose**

_Paris, 1892_

Erik strolled through the dusty old secret passages leading around the opera house, inhaling lungful after lungful of musty, stale air. The passages were mostly very dirty and some were falling apart from a lack of usage, but it was _home_. For the first time in ten years, Erik finally felt at home. He walked through every secret passageway that he had ever discovered, running his hands over smooth stone and chipping whitewash, cracked bricks and old tiles. He triggered all the old levers, some still in working condition, and some slightly rusty, and he noted the ones that would need to be changed or oiled. He pressed the buttons of the hidden doors, feeling a great sense of satisfaction as they swung open to reveal even more secret passages. This was home.

He was passing by the ballet rats' dormitories when he heard high-pitched voices call out a very familiar name.

"Amélie, Amélie! Show us your music box again!" A chorus of voices sounded. Erik quickly peered through a small hole in the wall, and saw a girl sitting on her bed, surrounded by a gaggle of younger ballet rats who were still in their practice leotards. They were clamouring for her to show them something. "Amélie, please do show it to us! And tell us a story!"

"Girls! Quieten down first! I can barely hear myself over all of you." She scolded them. Erik looked at the girl, surprised at how much she sounded like Antoinette. _Is that little Amélie? The same Amélie-Rose?_

Upon closer inspection, he saw that the girl had russet locks, pulled back with a bright red ribbon in a high ponytail, hanging in a straight sheet down her back. Her bright blue eyes twinkled merrily as she surveyed the little girls around her. The image brought back happier memories of days long past, of a cheerful, bouncy little girl with a head full of russet curls, and those same twinkling blue eyes, jumping happily around the room as he told her stories. Erik blinked in surprise. He had not thought to ask Antoinette about Amélie when he had met her earlier, but it seemed that Amélie was here, well and alive.

"Amélie, will you tell us the story about the knight and the princess in the red dress again? Please?"

"Alright girls, but after that you all have to wash up and get ready for bed, is that clear? Now gather around and listen up." She arranged herself more comfortably upon the bed, and placed her beloved music box carefully upon her lap. Erik's eyes widened slightly when he saw it. _Is that… the same… music box I made her? _And yet it was unmistakable, with the little tin princess atop it, dressed in her red gown. The fabric was a little faded with age, and much of the original paint that made up the princess's sparkling blue eyes was gone, but it was unmistakably, undeniably, the very same music box Erik had made many years ago. He watched as she carefully, tenderly even, turned the little key at the side of the box to trigger the lilting melody of the music box.

"Now once upon a time, there lived a beautiful princess. She had hair that gleamed a fine bronze under the sunlight, and she wore it long and curly down her back. Her lips were the shade of rubies, and her cheeks were filled with a rosy blush like the peach pink of an apple. Her favourite colour was red, and her name was Rose, after the multitude of rose bushes that her father the king had grown all around the castle…"

Erik stood frozen in the passageway, one hand pressed to the wall before him, enraptured by the story that she was telling the ballet rats. It was the exact same story he had told her the day before he had left. As he listened to her soft voice weave the story for the ballet rats, his mind drifted off to a day long past.

_"The lovely princess accepted the knight for who he was, despite the fact that he was not as handsome as the foreign prince who had come to ask for the princess's hand. She clasped the knight's hands tightly in her own, and placed her ring onto his finger, a tear running down her beautiful face as she did so, for by rejecting the prince and choosing the knight, she would have to leave the castle and her father forever more. _

_The knight carefully brushed the tear off her face, and told her not to cry, kissing her gently on her cheek. The two of them left the castle after she bid farewell to her father the king, even though he refused to say much to her, as she had disobeyed his orders and chosen the knight instead of the prince._

_They found a home, a delightful little cottage in the woods, covered in ivy and honeysuckle, with a small herb garden in the back, and plenty of space in the cottage for the two of them to live in. It was not much, but the princess was happy, and the knight felt like the luckiest man in the world to have her by his side. And just like that, the two of them lived happily ever after."_

_Amélie shifted on his lap to look back at him. "Why didn't the king want to accept the knight? The princess loved him!"_

_Erik smiled, perhaps a little bitterly at her. "It was because he was ugly, my little rose. He was ugly, and he had no kingdom to inherit. Of course, the king would choose the foreign prince, who had locks of gold upon his head, a charming smile, and a large country to rule over. Alas, the knight was not chosen because he was ugly."_

_"How ugly was he?" She asked curiously. _

_"As ugly as me." Erik sighed. "Now, story time is over, and you have to get back before Antoinette finishes her practice. I have to speak to her anyway."_

_Amélie frowned. "You're not ugly!" She patted the ravaged side of his face, which he had come to learn was her way of showing affection, before sliding off his knee and toddling to the door. "Will I see you again tomorrow? Will I have a new story tomorrow?" She asked cheerfully, beaming at him._

_He swallowed a lump in his throat, and said with a little difficulty, "Perhaps I will see you tomorrow. Come now, I'll bring you back."He slid his mask onto his face._

_Just before they had reached the door that would lead to the corridor where Amélie met Erik each time, she tugged on his hand, and looked up at him. _

_"You're not ugly, you're my friend." She smiled up at him so innocently that he felt a part of him die inside. "I'll see you tomorrow!"_

_He stared at her for a long moment. Slowly, awkwardly, he bent down, and gently brushed his lips against her unblemished, rosy cheek, which was flushed with excitement. He briefly tousled her hair, then gently pushed her out of the passageway._

_"Goodbye, my little rose." He allowed a brief smile to ghost over his lips, before he closed the door to the secret passageway and fled. He heard her calling from across the wall, asking him for a new and exciting story the next day._

Of course, he had never returned. The next day had been Antoinette's first performance as _prima ballerina_, and he had left immediately after the performance.

Meanwhile, Amélie had finished the story while he had been deeply mired in his memories, and the ballet rats were clapping rather enthusiastically.

"Who told you this story, Amélie? I loved it!" One of the younger ballet rats chimed. "Oh, if only I had a brave knight like that to come and sweep me off my feet!" She pretended to swoon romantically, and the rest laughed.

"What, you would choose the ugly knight?" Another ballet rat scoffed, tossing her curly dark brown hair over her shoulder. "Why not the handsome prince with all his riches to offer?"

Erik felt the corner of his mouth turn up a little bitterly. _Yes, why not choose the handsome prince and let the ugly knight rot in despair in his own hell?_

"No! The ugly knight loved the beautiful princess! He was _much_ better than the handsome prince." The first ballet rat countered. "Don't you think so, Amélie? Who told you this story?"

Amélie laughed at the little girls squabbling. "A friend of mine once told me this story, a long, long time ago." She said a little wistfully. "I barely remember him, but I remember his stories, and I remember how each time seemed like a little adventure for me. Those days were the happiest days of my childhood in the opera house."

"Was your friend ugly too like the knight? Why else would he tell you stories about an ugly knight? Most fairytales have handsome princes that live happily ever after with the princess." The ballet rat who had chosen the handsome prince screwed up her face in thought. The other ballet rats immediately shushed her.

"That's rude, Francine! Shh!"

"How could you say that!" One ballet rat whacked the offending ballet rat on the arm, and she responded with a scowl, rubbing her red arm.

Amélie frowned. "My friend wasn't ugly at all. I don't recall what he looks like, but I know he was beautiful."

Francine looked confused. "Well, if you don't remember what he looks like, then how do you know that he's beautiful?"

"When I was lonely, he told me stories and entertained me. He was all alone in this world, and yet he found it in his heart to keep a little girl company. Ugly? I think not! I may not remember what he looks like, Francine, but he was the most beautiful boy I'd ever met." Amélie replaced her music box back into its drawer, stroking it. "Now girls, story time is over, and you all have to get ready for bed."

XXXXX

The next morning, Antoinette crept down to the kitchens with a basket, filling it with a loaf of bread and some cheese. She made her way down the stairs leading to the storeroom, and knocked on the door softly before letting herself in. The sight that she saw made her smile a little.

Erik sat on the floor, slumped against a crate, one arm resting on the surface of a crate and his head on his arm, sleeping, his mouth slightly open. He looked every bit like the boy that Antoinette had rescued, seemingly free of the world's turmoil in his sleep.

And yet, even as she stood there looking at him, Erik begin to shift restlessly in his sleep, mumbling beneath his breath, clenching his fists.

"No, no! Don't make me do it! I'll do anything else, I beg you! Please, no… not that…" He cried in his sleep. "No!"

With a final cry of anguish, he shot up from his slumber, a thin sheen of sweat upon his face, breathing heavily. Antoinette coughed softly to alert him of her presence and he looked up sharply at once, immediately adjusting his mask from its skewed position upon his face.

"How long have you been here?" He asked coldly. Antoinette set her basket down and walked over to him.

"Long enough to know. Do you still have those nightmares, Erik?"

"Always." He said hoarsely. "Always. They've never stopped plaguing me. Only now they are worse, because I can hear the screams of those I've killed, along with my own screams as the gypsies beat me. It never stops, Antoinette. It never stops. In the past, you used to sit with me sometimes while I slept, and it helped chase away a few of the demons, but they always returned the next night anyway."

Erik smoothed his hands over his hair, ever conscious about his appearance. "What brings you down here again, Antoinette?"

"I brought you some food. I thought you might be hungry."

Erik nodded, and reached for the bread and cheese, tearing into it ravenously. "Will you tell me what has happened here over the past ten years, Antoinette? Am I to understand that you are no longer Antoinette Bellamy? Who is the lucky man?"

"He's dead, Erik."

Erik looked stumped by her matter-of-fact statement. When he looked her in the eye, she saw sadness in his green eyes.

"No pity, Erik. I do not want your pity." She stated, parroting his earlier words. "I loved Everard Giry dearly, but fate chose to take him away from me, and I have managed to live." She sat down, and relayed to Erik a brief recounting of what had happened in the opera house in the last ten years.

"At least I still have Marguerite—Meg, my daughter. She is my pride and joy."

"Ah, yes. The little blonde ballerina. She takes after you, her dancing is superb, though it cannot hold a candle to yours."

Antoinette smiled a little, obviously pleased at his compliment. "She will be _prima ballerina_ one day, Erik. I am sure of it."

"She will be." He agreed. "And… what of little Amélie?", he asked a little hesitantly. "Is she… well?"

"Amélie is very well indeed. She has flourished in the opera house, and she is good friends with Meg. I believe that the two of them are the best dancers amongst those of their age in the _ballet de corps_. Would you like to meet her?" Antoinette raised an eyebrow.

His response was fast and sharp. "No. No, Antoinette."

"Why ever not? She would be pleased to see you again."

"See me?" Erik laughed cruelly. "Why would she want to see me, see this?" He gestured to his mask. "She wouldn't be pleased to see a demon like me."

"She accepted you for who you were, Erik."

"She was a child, too young to know anything, too young to understand that behind the mask hid a true monster. I will not go near her again, Antoinette. I will not risk her childhood dreams crushed when she finds out who the man behind the mask really is."

"Then you're a greater fool than I thought, Erik. I know that Amélie will not care what lies behind the mask, just like I do not care."

"It does not matter. She will not see me again."

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A/N: Read/Review/Favourite/Follow/Tell me what you think! (: Did you like it?


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Whew, it's been a busy week for me. I just had my first ever job, and it was tiring. I'm pretty much dead on my feet now! I start a new job (since the first one was just a 1 week job) this Friday, so I'm going to be really busy again...

Well in this chapter, we finally get more of Erik! No Amélie here, I'm afraid, but she will come pretty soon.

Thank you to **WildConcerto, BlackBloodAlchemist, Shannah-themusician **& **grapejuice101** for the favs/follows. It is much appreciated. xx

Wild Concerto: Thank you so much! Your review took me by complete surprise, I was really happy to read it! I really don't deserve such praise though haha. I'm trying my best to keep with the spirit of the books, though I have to admit that my Erik is a lot more tame than in the book, the original Leroux is much too maniacal and crazy for my liking (how did he expect Christine to love him when he acted that way, anyway? hahaha). But thank you soo much for your review, I'm really really flattered. Of course now I have to live up to your expectations, the stress is that much more! w

Masked Man 2: Oh, no worries! I didn't see your comment that way at all, I just felt that I couldn't take credit for the idea of the Sultana as the mother haha. I like to build up a long, sappy, love story, so it may be some time before Amélie realises (;

icanhearthedrums: Haha no her name is Francine! Christine doesn't come into the picture until much later, I'm afraid!

xx hazel

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**Chapter 9: The Opera Ghost**

_Paris, 1893_

_Erik did not know why he had left the music box that day. Sentiment, perhaps. A little part of him had probably hoped that the only friend he had ever had would remember him even when he was gone. Sentiment. What a useless feeling it was._

For the past year, Erik had toiled tirelessly over what was to be his home, deep in the fifth cellars below the opera house. When he had been a child, he had not been able to make the place as livable as he would have liked, but now, a grown man, he was finally able to construct a home for himself.

Home. It was a strange word. Erik had never had a place of his own to truly call home. The cellars beneath the opera house could not be considered his own, but at least it would be a place where he could reign, a place where his dark solitude triumphed.

The days melded into each other, a blur of new rooms to make, new walls to be built, or new alterations to be created. Erik wanted his house to be perfect. The cellars beneath the opera house were a veritable treasure trove of furniture and fabric, and Erik spent many a day on his knees in the dusty rooms, flipping through boxes, and pulling off dusty furniture coverings, then lugging the heavy pieces down to his new home. To his great amazement, he came upon a large box one day, containing what seemed to be a dismantled, old pipe organ. Like a child, he excitedly opened the musty box, almost ripping the thin cardboard in his haste. He ran his hands over the contents of the box reverently, feeling the cold metal with awe.

That very day, Erik made the pipe organ his new project. He read the old, faded instruction manuals, squinting at the tiny words, and bit by bit, he built his organ. When he first pressed his fingers to the keys, and the heavenly, rich sound echoed around the cavern, he closed his eyes in joy. He hesitantly tried a few more notes, and each note embedded itself within his mind with more contentment than the one before. Erik had missed the days when he would sneak into the rehearsal rooms late at night, to teach himself how to play the piano. In Persia, music had been his constant companion. He had had no piano there, but he had the melodies in his head that played continuously, calming and soothing him in his most ravaged moments.

When he had almost completed his house, Erik decided that he needed some funds. He stood in his living room, contemplating the house. There was the library, which was regrettably still empty, but would not remain so for long. His old books were still intact, in the storeroom he had left them in so many years ago, and they were waiting to be moved into his new library. He had even managed to smuggle some books from Persia. There was the small kitchen, and the few empty rooms that were meant to be bedrooms. Erik laughed a little bitterly to himself. _Why would there be a need for bedrooms when I'm the only one living here by myself?_

There was the music room, which connected to the living room via large doors which were wide open. It housed his precious pipe organ. The room was his sacred place. His bedroom was minimal, as Erik did not sleep much. He had lugged down a thick hunk of wood that he had found outside a carpenter's shop, and painstakingly carved it into a bed frame, with the figure head of a large bird, its large wings forming the sides of the bed in a protective gesture.

His house was fine and almost completed, but Erik needed funds if he wanted to continue living in the opera house. He could not depend on stealing the odd loaf of bread from the kitchen for sustenance any longer, as he had once done as a child. His fingers itched to write music, to transcribe the melodies in his head onto tangible paper and ink, but he needed manuscript paper, quills, ink.

That was when the first letter from the Opera Ghost arrived on Debienne's table, written on parchment that Erik had stolen from the manager himself, in black ink, with a black border drawn around the words. The letter lay in a sealed envelope, the seal a bright red with a skull imprinted into the wax, waiting for Debienne to come to the office in the morning to discover it.

"Antoinette!" The door to the ballet room flew open, and Debienne flew in, his tie askew, breathing heavily and bent over with exertion. Upon seeing the rows of curious ballerinas staring at him, he straightened, coughing hastily. "I mean, Madame Giry!"

"What is it, monsieur?" Antoinette asked, annoyed that Debienne had disrupted her rehearsal. "All of you, back to practice! I don't want to come back in to see anybody resting!" She tapped her cane sharply on the floor and the ballet rats hurriedly scurried back into position. Antoinette gestured toward the door, and Debienne stepped out. She followed, closing the door behind her.

"Antoinette, what is the meaning of this?" Debienne demanded, waving a piece of parchment furiously at her. Antoinette looked at him confusedly and reached out to take the parchment from him.

The thin spidery script was something that she recognized quite well, and her face drained of colour as she took in the letter's contents. It was brief and succinct, but the meaning behind it was rather clear.

_To the manager of the Palais Garnier_

_Greetings from the Opera Ghost. I have sent this letter to you in a most amiable manner, detailing a set of instruction which you will read, and follow. If you do not adhere to my instructions, a disaster beyond imagination will befall you. That, I can assure you._

_First, you will replace the third trombone. The man cannot hold his pitch for longer than a few seconds and the sound trembles dreadfully, and as such, is dispensable. He must go._

_Second, some of the set designers have been skimming money off the set funds to indulge in their vices. The state of some of the set backdrops is deplorable, and you will put a stop to this at once._

_Thirdly and finally, I demand a salary for my services. You will give Madame Giry 20,000 francs each month, to be placed in an envelope and brought to Box Five. Box Five is to be kept empty for my own use._

_I hope I have made myself clear. I await your favourable response._

_Yours, O.G._

Antoinette held the parchment with shaky hands. "What is this, monsieur?"

"I am asking you that exactly!" Debienne said rather indignantly. "Is this your idea of a joke, a clever prank, perhaps? It is not April's Fool, Antoinette!"

"I can assure you, monsieur, that this is not my doing!" Antoinette said sharply. "Are you accusing me of playing a prank to cheat you of 20,000 francs? The gall!" She slammed her cane hard onto the floor, and Debienne winced.

"Well, then what is the meaning of this note? You do not know this O.G.?"

"Of course not!" She slammed her cane down onto the floor again for added emphasis. "What will you do now, monsieur?"

"I'm not giving him what he wants! It must be some stagehand playing a clever trick... eh? Well, I'm not falling for it! I'm not paying him 20, 000 francs! Though I'll let the third trombone go, as Reyer has been badgering me to let him go for quite some time now… though why he would say that I can't imagine, I can't find anything wrong with his playing…" Muttering loudly, Debienne wandered off, shaking the offending piece of parchment. Antoinette stared after him. _What are you doing, Erik?_

It did not take long for Erik to carry out the threats that he had spoken about in his letter to Debienne. By noon, the entire opera house was gossiping about the resident spectre, and Debienne was quite beside himself. During one of the ballet rehearsals in the morning, some backdrops had creaked ominously and shifted around as though somebody was carrying them, but all the stagehands had been elsewhere, and the ballet rats had squealed loudly before dashing off, helter-skelter, screeching that there was a ghost in the opera house. Following that, mysterious thuds could be heard echoing from all around the theatre, accompanied by what sounded like high-pitched, maniacal laughter, even though nobody could see anybody in the theatre who could have caused those sounds, and a thorough search around the place revealed nothing. Antoinette heard the thuds and the laughter, and knew that it was Erik, as they had spent many an afternoon in the past acting out different voices in the stories they read, but even she shuddered to hear the spooky laughter in the theatre.

The final straw came, perhaps, during La Carlotta's rehearsal after lunch. La Carlotta's rehearsals were always in the afternoon, as the diva refused to wake up any earlier to attend rehearsals which she felt were a waste of her precious time anyway. As the rest of the performers milled in slowly after lunch, La Carlotta swept into the room in one of her bejeweled gowns, the aubergine colour clashing rather nastily with her bright orange hair and the low neckline threatening to expose more of her bosom than the opera house members deigned to see.

La Carlotta had once been a fine singer, perhaps years before Erik had even entered the opera house, when she had just debuted at the young age of fifteen, a rising star in an Italian opera house, who took the opera goers by storm with the quality of her voice and her flaming orange hair. But being the diva that she was, La Carlotta enjoyed resting on her laurels, believing that her voice was incomparable, and that it was simply impossible for her to be replaced. To put it honestly, La Carlotta's voice was past its prime, a mere shadow of its former glory. She had, in her many years of indulgence, allowed her voice to slowly deteriorate and her beauty to fade, and all that remained of La Carlotta's former glory was a rather plump woman who enjoyed squeezing herself into tight dresses with even tighter corsets, and who could not carry much of a tune any longer.

Erik had always disliked Carlotta and her overbearing, diva ways. She thought that the opera house was fortunate to have her as their _prima donna_, and believed herself to be the very best. When he had been a child, her voice had been passable. Now, as she stood on stage, her voice straining to hit the higher notes, Erik winced and stuffed his fingers into his ears. The conductor, Monsieur Reyer, tapped his baton sharply on his stand, causing the orchestra to come to a standstill, and La Carlotta to glare at him angrily for having disrupted her song.

"Signora, please! You're hitting the wrong note!" Reyer said exasperatedly.

"What are you saying, conductor? I, La Carlotta, am incapable of hitting the wrong notes! How dare you!" She screeched back at him, before muttering several Italian expletives under her breath. Reyer said nothing, but grimly lifted his hands once more, gesturing with his baton for the orchestra to start the music again.

And once more, La Carlotta opened her mouth to let out an off-tune warble, but this time her rendition was cut short by the loud thump of a sandbag which had mysteriously fallen out of nowhere and landed onto the floor directly beside her. Had it been a few inches to the left, La Carlotta would no doubt have been hit by the heavy sandbag. La Carlotta did the only thing she could think of doing—she let out a loud shriek, and threw the shawl from her costume off her shoulders."It is the ghost!"

"Yes, signora, perhaps the ghost appreciates fine music and can tell an off-tune note when he hears it." Reyer said dryly. "Shall we begin again, then?"

Erik decided then that he rather liked Reyer. La Carlotta, on the other hand, was having none of it. She stamped her foot petulantly on the floor.

"I will not! I will _not_ be performing in this opera house until the ghost has left!"

From up in the rafters, Erik threw his voice around the room, allowing his maniacal laughter to echo off the walls. La Carlotta shrieked again, and ran off the stage into the arms of Piangi, the _primo uomo_, sobbing hysterically. Erik smirked.

La Carlotta refused to continue rehearsing, even though Debienne tried his best to cajole her. She staunchly put her foot down and declared that if Debienne did not follow the Opera Ghost's instructions such that he stopped tormenting the employees of the opera house, specifically _her_— since nobody else mattered as much as she did— thenthe Palais Garnier would have to look for a new _prima donna_. And just like that, La Carlotta unwittingly helped start Erik's tyrannical reign over the opera house. It did not cpme as a surprise to Erik that La Carlotta, with her overbearing ways, had been the deciding factor which caused Debienne to make the choice to give in to the Opera Ghost's demands, but Erik was not going to complain about that anyway.

Just before dinner time, Antoinette was called over to Debienne's office. She was shocked when he handed a thick envelope over to her with a resigned look on his face.

"What's this, monsieur? Is this… goodness, this is money! What in the world is it for?" She exclaimed.

"It's no use, Antoinette. My opera house will go to ruin if I allow that Opera Ghost to continue playing his tricks around here! La Carlotta will not sing if I do not make it stop. Without La Carlotta, we are nothing. Already many of the stagehands are threatening to quit and take their services to another opera house, as they feel that having a ghost against us is bad luck for the theatre." Debienne shook his head. "I have to think about the opera house and its future! Now take it and bring it quickly to Box Five. I do not wish for any more unfortunate accidents today."

Antoinette held the envelope tightly in her hand as she made her way up to Box Five, silently seething inside. Once inside the box, she rapped on the wall sharply.

"Are you in here somewhere, Erik? Get out here at once!" She called. Almost immediately, as though he had been waiting for her, as though he had known that Debienne would cave in, the door swung open and Erik walked in silently on padded soles, closing the door behind him. Antoinette turned on him harshly.

"What is the meaning of this, Erik? Do you mean to drive our opera house to ruin? Do you mean to ruin _me_?" She snapped, brandishing the envelop. Erik frowned and snatched it from her hands, pocketing it neatly.

"Of course not, Antoinette. I am merely putting my skills to good use in this opera house. I'll provide the manager with a list of instructions regularly on how to improve the productions, and the profits _will _roll in, even greater than before. Of that you have my promise, Antoinette."

"Why, Erik," She asked through gritted teeth, "would you not choose to apply for a job just like any other normal man instead? I'm sure Reyer would be greatly pleased with some assistance."

He scoffed. "You know that would never happen."

"Pray tell me why indeed, do you think that you are incapable of holding a job like a normal man?" She snapped back, crossing her arms. "I would love to hear whatever brilliant reason you have conjured up for yourself."

Erik scowled at her. "A job like a normal man? Might I remind you, Antoinette, that I am _not a normal man_!" He ripped his mask off and bared his teeth at her in anger. Antoinette almost winced at the sight of his ferocious face, but she stood her ground. She would _not_ be intimidated by this boy whom she had saved from the claws of death, regardless of whether he was ugly or not. She slammed her cane sharply onto the floor and looked him in the eye fiercely.

"As I have already told you time and again before, Erik, you have the right to _be_ a normal man. _You_ are standing in your own way of living a normal life." She told him flatly. Erik only scoffed again at her statement, and turned to leave.

"Either way, Antoinette, it does not matter, since this is my own choice. If you do not help me, I will find some way to do it by myself, but of course, I would prefer that you help me."

"You seek to ruin yourself!" Antoinette called after him sharply. "If you are not careful, you will ruin yourself, and the opera house will crumble along with you!"

"The opera house will only see improvements under my control, Antoinette." He called back confidently, perhaps a little haughtily. Antoinette hit the ground with her cane again angrily, fuming. _Ah, that damnable pride and stubbornness. What are you doing, Erik? _

But despite her anger, Antoinette knew that she would not be able to find it in her heart to refuse Erik. The world was a fool for not recognizing the boundless genius in Erik, his eagerness to share his talents with the world, and the contributions he could give. To Antoinette, Erik was nothing short of a genius, talented, perhaps insane at moments, but nevertheless a true wonder. Her heart went out to the young boy who had only sought to share with the world what he could do, only to be cruelly rejected for the freak that others viewed him as. She only prayed that one day, Erik would find peace.

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A/N: Next chapter comes with fluff, so please read/review/favourite/follow/let me know what you think! It would make my day (:


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: It's only been two days into my new job and already I'm so late. By the time I manage to get online it's already 9pm, and I have to get ready for bed by 10.30 because I wake up at around 6.30 in the morning. It's going to be hectic for sure!

Thank you to new followers/favourites: **CupidsArrow17 **& **ChibiChesire**; I really appreciate it, and it lets me know people actually like how the story's going so far! (:

Erik's Guest: Happy New Year! I'm glad you like the story thus far, I hope it'll continue to be interesting for you!

Masked Man 2: You flatter me :') Thank you so much for your reviews every week, they mean so much to me ;_;

icanhearthedrums: 3

This week's chapter is something frivolous and ridiculous, and must be quite possibly the most ludicrous thing I've ever thought of (as can be seen by the title). I had to find a way for them to meet again... and honestly... I love chocolate peppermints.

Enjoy!

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**Chapter 10: Chocolate Peppermints**

_Paris, 1893_

Amélie knew that something was going on with Madame Giry and the Opera Ghost. She had asked Madame Giry casually about it several times, but each time, had been rebuffed severely, with the warning not to dwell on such matters any longer. Amélie felt a little surprised that Madame had acted so harshly, since everybody had been curious about the opera house's new ghost, not just Amélie alone, and this further cemented her suspicions about Madame Giry's real involvement with the Opera Ghost. _How am I to stop dwelling on it if it is all I hear about these days?_

And, as if right on cue, there came a loud shriek from somewhere in the opera house, and a ballet rat rushed past Amélie, screaming that she had seen the ghost. When a stagehand emerged from the shadows with a white sheet over his shoulders, grinning triumphantly, Amélie sighed. It seemed that all that happened these days in the opera house were attributed to the ghost. If a hairpin or ribbon went missing, the ballet rats shrieked hysterically and said that the ghost had stolen their belongings as a threat to them. If a certain set was moved or painted wrongly, the ghost was blamed for it, even though Amélie was quite sure that most of such happenings had occurred only because many of the stagehands and set painters were too drunk most of the time to move or paint the set pieces properly, and some of the ballet rats were really just too scatterbrained.

Amélie wondered what all the big fuss about the ghost was, really. Though many of the ballet rats and chorus girls dramatically moaned that the ghost was upon them when they found yet another of their belongings lost due to their own absentmindedness, Amélie doubted that he could pose any serious harm to any of them. All that had occurred since he had started haunting the opera house was that the dreadful third trombone who always played off key had been replaced, and a brilliant new trombonist brought in, much to Reyer's immense gratitude. Even La Carlotta had been a little more subdued in her tantrums, especially after the last backdrop had crashed down onto a spot she had just vacated moments ago. It all seemed a good thing that the opera ghost had chosen to haunt this opera house. _Perhaps for once we could go through a rehearsal without having to wince whenever the trombonist hits the wrong note or whenever La Carlotta decides to throw another diva fit_.

Amélie entered the practice room, noticing Madame Giry standing to one side, seemingly preoccupied with her thoughts. Madame Giry was always distracted recently since the talk about the ghost started, yet another piece of evidence in Amélie's mind that she was connected to the Opera Ghost somehow. Never one to be deterred by rejection, Amélie stepped forward boldly, wanting to ask Madame Giry about the ghost again.

"Madame?"

Madame Giry looked up with an expression of surprise, before she quickly schooled her features again into its usual stern demeanour. She raised an eyebrow questioningly, and Amélie took this as an encouragement to proceed.

"Madame, you know the Opera Ghost, don't you?"

At once, Madame Giry's face contorted into that familiar scowl that Amélie had seen so many times, and she banged her cane on the floor. "Amélie-Rose! How many times do you want me to tell you that I know nothing about this so-called ghost, and you of all people should know me well enough to know that I simply _do not believe in ghosts_."

"But madame…" Amélie began, but stopped when she saw the murderous glare in Madame Giry's eyes. She sighed. "Madame, allow me this one question. You said that you 'do not believe in ghosts'. Am I right to say that the so-called Opera Ghost is simply not a ghost at all, then?"

Madame Giry's fierce expression faltered for a moment, so quickly that Amélie might not have caught it if she had not been looking out for it. Inwardly, she suppressed a smirk in triumph. _So I was right._ Madame Giry frowned.

"I am only saying this, Amélie, in the hopes that you will stop pestering me about it, and because I feel that I can trust you. Yes, the Opera Ghost is a flesh and blood man just like any of us. However, you will _not_ reveal this information to anybody at all, do you understand me? There is a lot more at risk than your darned curiousity."

Amélie nodded dutifully, but inside she was secretly happy that Madame Giry had confirmed her suspicions. Every little bit of information she managed to glean about the Opera Ghost brought her one step closer to discovering who he really was. Amélie did not for one moment believe that a ghost had taken up to haunting the opera house. She had been there all her life, and had never heard so much as a squeak about any sort of ghost, and hence was less inclined to believe that a ghost had suddenly appeared.

No, Amélie knew that there was more to it than a simple ghost story, especially since the ghost had specially pinpointed Madame Giry to be his helper and she had told Debienne that she would take on the job. In all her years of knowing Madame Giry, Amélie had never known Madame Giry to be forced to do something that she did not want to. The fact that she had so willingly agreed to be the ghost's messenger implied that Madame Giry perhaps, knew the ghost.

If anything, Amélie made it her mission to find out who this Opera Ghost was, and what he was doing haunting an opera house when he was far from dead.

Her opportunity came only too soon.

XXXXX

"Amélie, will you do me a favour?"

"Oh, of course, madame. What is it?" Amélie was slightly surprised, for Madame Giry _never_ asked for favours from anyone. Madame Giry handed a long piece of parchment over to her, along with a large wicker basket.

"I need you to do some shopping for me, because it's rather urgent. The younger ballet rats need my attention immediately for their newest dance, so even though I'd really rather go by myself, I am unable to leave. You are able to do this for me, yes?"

Amélie nodded as she looked at the list of parchment, scanning through it briefly. It was filled with thin, spidery writing in black ink, and she was slightly intrigued as this was not Madame Giry's handwriting. _Roasted chicken, salted meat, any kind of vegetable, a loaf of bread, biscuits, Russian tea, manuscript paper, quills and ink, shaving soap… wait, shaving soap?_

She looked up at Madame Giry curiously, only to be met with a stern stare. "Ask no questions, Amélie, for I cannot answer them anyway." She warned. "I am only asking you to do this for me because I know I can trust you not to let anyone know. Is that very clear?"

Amélie sighed. Ever since Madame Giry had revealed the truth about the ghost being a real man, she had pestered Madame Giry about the subject many times before, and each time she had received the same curt reply from Madame Giry. "All right. What will I do with the goods?"

"Just leave them in Box Five, and he will collect them for himself during dinner time when nobody is about. You will return after dinner to bring the basket back for me. Here is ten extra francs on top of the money needed for the shopping, Amélie, spend it on something for yourself." Madame Giry pressed the money into Amélie's hand in a rare show of generosity, and Amélie's eyes lit up happily, all thoughts of the Opera Ghost forgotten.

"Thank you, madame! I won't be long!" Hooking the basket over her arm, she dashed back to her dormitory room to change into a suitable walking dress before heading off to the shops.

XXXXX

A very long shopping trip later, Amélie hefted the basket up again upon her arm, where it kept sliding down repeatedly despite her attempts. She groaned at the weight of the basket, before consulting the list held tightly in her other hand. There was only the shaving soap left, so Amélie stopped by the grocer's to ask for it.

"Why, if it isn't little Amélie!" The grocer said jovially. "What's this you want? Shaving soap, eh? For a new beau of yours?" He winked conspiratorially.

Amélie gaped at him. "Of course not, monsieur! It's… it's for a stagehand who asked me to help him buy it on my way to the shops." She said lamely, knowing how strange her reason sounded. _What reason can I give, anyway? 'Oh no, the Opera Ghost asked me to buy it for him, and no, I have no idea why a ghost would need shaving soap.'_

The grocer chuckled, and passed the soap over to her. "Anything you say, little Amélie. By the way, I heard that Madame Denis over at the sweet shop next door has some new sweets in, and I know how much you like sweets, so I just thought you would like to know, before they get sold out!"

"Oh! I'll have to pop by, then! Thank you for letting me know, monsieur. Though I should really blame you if I grow too fat for my ballet costumes." Amélie grinned cheekily at the grocer, paying him for the soap, before stepping out of the shop and heading to the sweet shop next door.

The brightly coloured displays of sweets in the shop never failed to make Amélie's mouth water. She breathed in deeply, inhaling the rich scent of dark chocolate, and the sugary sweetness of butterscotch taffy. Madame Giry was always very strict about her ballet rats' diets, and forbid them from overindulgence in sweetmeats. It was only on a rare occasion that they would be able to partake in the sweet treats that so many of them loved.

"Good day, Madame Denis." Amélie greeted the plump, homely lady over the counter. "The grocer mentioned you had some new sweets in!"

Madame Denis was a middle-aged woman with her blonde hair pulled back in a bun, wearing a simple cornflower blue dress with a white apron over it. She ran the shop with her husband, who was often in the kitchen in the back working on new sweet creations. They were both a rather jolly couple, who was always pleased to introduce Amélie to new sweets and occasionally, treat her to a new, unreleased creation of Monsieur Denis', free of charge.

"Hello, Amélie. I believe we just made up a batch of your favourite chocolate peppermints yesterday. Would you like some?" She asked, her eyes twinkling. She laughed when Amélie nodded enthusiastically.

"May I have five francs worth of chocolate peppermints, madame?"

"I'll throw in an extra franc of them free of charge, but be sure not to tell Madame Giry, or she will have my head the next time she comes down to the shops!" Madame Denis joked, weighing out the chocolate mints.

A thought suddenly occurred to Amélie. "Oh, madame! Do you think you could put that extra franc's worth of chocolate peppermints into a separate bag?"

Amélie walked out of the sweet shop, whistling happily, her basket now containing the new additions of two paper bags of chocolate mints, twisted shut. She quickly made her way back to the opera house.

XXXXX

When Amélie got back to the opera house, most of the ballet rats had already headed down for dinner, and she hurriedly returned to her room. Opening a drawer in the chest of drawers beside her bed, she stashed her remaining five francs, and the mints inside to enjoy later, but not before popping one into her mouth first, rolling it about her tongue and delighting in the taste of the smooth, sweet chocolate. She reached inside her drawer for a writing pad, and tore off a sheet, hastily scribbling a note onto it. Then, tucking the note into the basket, she went off in search of Box Five.

Amélie stepped into Box Five, after making sure that nobody had been around to see her enter. The plush carpeting beneath her feet felt delightful, and the thick red velvet curtains surrounding the walls of the box made her feel extremely grand. _Oh, what would it be like to watch a production from a box!_

She placed the basket carefully on one of the seats in the box, making sure that the note was visible, and then left the box, rubbing her growling stomach and wondering what was for dinner.

XXXXX

The corridors leading to the boxes were thankfully, empty and quiet, as most of the employees were busy having their dinner. Erik made his way through the corridors, keeping as quiet as he could. He had a secret passage way through a pillar in the box, but it was rather cramped, and he preferred not to use it unless he had no other choice.

Entering Box Five, he shut the door silently behind him and headed toward the large basket waiting for him on the seat, marveling at Antoinette's efficiency at running the large _ballet de corps_ with an iron fist, and helping him to fetch his groceries each week. He noticed the scrap of paper sticking out of the basket, and picked it up curiously. Antoinette had never seen fit to send him a message with his weekly groceries before.

Unfolding the paper revealed not Antoinette's blocky, neat letters, but rather a girlish, loopy script. The note was short, but Erik's eyes widened at its incredulity.

_To Monsieur Le Fantôme _

_I hope you enjoy chocolate peppermints; they are my favourite sweets._

_Amélie_

Erik stared at the note blankly for a few moments. _Antoinette sent her to get the groceries? She told her who I was? Is this… a gift? What in the world are chocolate peppermints?_

He decided that Amélie probably had no idea who he was yet, since he had made Antoinette promise not to tell her, and he doubted that Antoinette would break her promise. He rifled through the basket, searching for the aforementioned peppermints, and found a little white paper bag with a sweet shop's name stamped on it. He unscrewed the top curiously, and the smell of chocolate wafted up his nose. His stomach growled subconsciously, and he remembered that he had not bothered to eat anything today yet. Gingerly, he reached inside the sticky waxed paper bag, and withdrew a chocolate peppermint, popping it into his mouth.

It was good. Erik almost laughed at the thought of himself, the feared Opera Ghost, standing in Box Five and eating chocolate peppermints bought by a ballet rat. He wondered why she had bothered to leave the chocolate peppermints, as she could not have possibly guessed that the Opera Ghost was one and the same with her childhood masked friend.

XXXXX

When Amélie crept back up to Box Five after dinner, she found the basket sitting in the exact same seat as she had left it. Walking over, she picked it up, but realized that there was a folded piece of parchment in it, and a beautiful dark red rose. It's velvety petals were fresh and vibrant, and it was beautiful. She hastily grabbed the parchment, almost ripping it in her hurry to unfold it. There was that same spidery script, identical to the one on the shopping list.

_I did enjoy the peppermints very much. Thank you, mademoiselle._

Amélie felt a strange warmth rush through her, and she began to giggle almost hysterically. _The Opera Ghost actually replied to my letter! He likes peppermints!_ It was such a ridiculous thought that Amélie had to hold onto the seat to catch her breath from laughing too hard. Grabbing onto the basket, she skipped from the room, the parchment and red rose held tightly in her other hand.

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A/N: Please read/review/favourite/follow/let me know that you're reading and liking it! 3


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Gosh, I'm so busy theseadays that I haven't written anything new, all these chapters were written a long time ago, so please forgive me if there are any mistakes! I don't have time to proofread as much as I used to, but I do hope I'll be able to post up a new chapter weekly! I had problems posting up a new chapter on Monday as the site kept giving me error messages every single day, so here is this week's chapter a few days late!

Thank you to new followers/favourites: **camsam17, Swirlingdreamkeeper, Pineapple3000, & Spirit of the Opera**; I really really appreciate it and knowing that you guys like it makes me really happy!

Wild Concerto: Just one more chapter! -squeals-

Spirit of the Opera: I did have a lovely Christmas! Happy New Year to you too!

Pineapple3000: Thank you! I update weekly on Mondays, so check back on Mondays for new chapters! (:

Masked Man 2: Amelie is too curious for her own good! Hahaha. I'm not too sure what you mean by the error, though! If you mean 'sweetmeats', it actually is a word! It means candied fruits, but I used it as a general term for sweet stuff (:

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**Chapter 11: Correspondence**

_Paris, 1893_

_Monsieur Le Fantôme _

_May I visit your home, please? I've always wanted to know where a ghost lives._

Erik snorted as he read the latest parchment tucked into his shopping basket, placed neatly next to a white paper bag filled with sweets. He set the parchment aside, and picked up the paper bag, hoping that it was filled with the same chocolate peppermints. He remembered Antoinette's shocked expression as he had handed her the shopping list, and she had seen the first item, 'chocolate peppermints', right at the top of the list. He had shrugged casually and disappeared into a secret tunnel nearby, leaving her to gape at the shopping list.

To his disappointment, the paper bag was not filled with chocolate covered peppermints. However, it was filled with a strange sort of coloured hard candy, along with a small, hastily scribbled note in Amélie's familiar loopy writing.

_The shop was all out of peppermints. It seems we are not the only two people who enjoy them, monsieur. Here is some rock candy instead, I hope you enjoy it._

Erik cautiously popped one of the brightly coloured pieces into his mouth, wondering why sweet makers found it necessary to colour sweets all sorts of colours. He much preferred red and black, his favourite colour, but it seemed that few sweets came in those colours. He tentatively bit down onto the softening candy in his mouth, raising his eyebrows in surprise as it crumbled into delightful pieces of hard sugar. It was good, but he found that he still preferred the peppermints anyway.

_To Mademoiselle Amélie: No, you may not. Thank you for the rock candy. I do still prefer the peppermints._

Amélie frowned upon reading the note. She had bubbled with happiness at receiving yet another note from the mysterious Opera Ghost, but her excitement had died quickly upon scanning through his polite rejection. She knew the old adage about curiousity and cats, but her sense of curiousity overcame that fear anyway. She wondered how long it would take before she managed to chip a crack in the Opera Ghost's impenetrable defenses.

The next week's shopping basket arrived in Box Five right on time, again with another scrap of parchment tucked within the groceries. Erik could not help his burgeoning curiousity as he plucked the letter out. He tried to reason with himself that he only wanted to see what she had written out of curiousity, but deep down, Erik knew that he secretly hoped that Amélie would continue writing to him. He had never had much human contact, and it rather thrilled him to know that he was receiving letters just like any normal person.

_Monsieur Le Fantôme, you're very welcome. If I may not visit your home, may I at least see you? _

_To Mademoiselle Amélie_: _No. Why ever are you so curious?_

Amélie ground her teeth in frustration at the latest reply. This Opera Ghost was proving to be a tough nut to crack, but her curiousity would be sated some way or other. She could not imagine what would cause a normal man to haunt an opera house under the guise of a ghost, but from his correspondence, he seemed to be a perfectly polite gentleman, and she wanted to know more about this enigma of a man.

_Monsieur Le Fantôme, I simply want to get to know you better. What harm could there be in that? Can you not satisfy a young girl's curiousity? _

At the corner of the parchment, Amélie had drawn a rather terrible rendition of himself, a strange amoeba-shaped object with two holes for eyes, seemingly to resemble the ghosts that children drew to decorate their rooms during All Hallow's Eve. Beside the ghost, there was a stick figure of a girl with a curious expression on her face.

And on a whim, Erik made a very impetuous, very rash decision.

XXXXX

The next day, when Amélie walked through a corridor, she heard a low humming coming from within the walls. She stopped and looked around nervously.

"Why so frightened, mademoiselle?" The humming stopped and a deep, lyrical voice sounded instead. "Did you not want to meet the Opera Ghost, hmm? Are you scared now? Are you regretting your desire now, your terrible curiousity?" The voice sounded almost _amused_. It was _right next to her ear_. Amélie jumped slightly and turned, but of course there was no one there. The voice laughed, and Amélie turned slightly red.

"Of course not! I am not a pansy! I was merely shocked. Is that really you, monsieur? Can I see you?" Amélie tried her best to brush off her fears, but her heart was still thumping fast within her chest. She could not believe that she was actually talking to the Opera Ghost, the so-called ghost who had been terrorizing the opera house members for the past few weeks.

"No, you may not. You will have to make do with this."

"Please?" Amélie tried to put on her best puppy-eyed face, staring at the wall, though she was not sure if he could see her, even. She opened her eyes wide and put her most woebegone expression on her face. When there was no response, she let her lower lip tremble a little. "Monsieur, please! I only ask for one little trip down to your house, or perhaps a glimpse of you! I wouldn't tell a soul!"

"No, Amélie. My home is not open to strangers."

"We aren't strangers!"

"My answer remains the same."

If anybody had walked past the corridor at that moment, they would have seen Amélie sulking at a wall, which made a very strange sight indeed.

"Well then, I won't buy any more sweets for you on my weekly trips to the shops." She threatened jokingly. There was silence for a moment, and Amélie feared that the Opera Ghost had gotten annoyed and left. She sighed, and turned to leave in disappointment, when his deep voice echoed from within the walls again.

"I believe a short trip down to my house for a quick tea would be rather delightful, mademoiselle. When may I expect you?" The voice sounded rather strained now. Amélie squealed in delight. She was surprised mostly, as she had only wanted to tease him, but she knew that the Opera Ghost had developed somewhat of a sweet tooth ever since she had introduced him to her favourite sweets. She had just not expected him to take her joke seriously, but since it had worked out all the better for her, she kept that fact to herself.

"I'm free almost all the time, except for rehearsals! When are you free, monsieur?" She cheered happily, almost jumping with joy. A trip to the Opera Ghost's house! She could hardly wait to see his house, and to see what he looked like, this mysterious man who had the voice of an angel, but pretended to be a ghost.

"Will Friday be fine for you, mademoiselle? I will wait for you in the chapel at three o'clock. I know you do not have rehearsals on Friday."

"Yes! Yes!" Amélie beamed happily. "I'll be there! Thank you monsieur!"

When she heard a ballet rat calling her from somewhere down the corridor, she bobbed a quick curtsey to the wall, and rushed off.

Deep within a secret passageway, Erik could not stop himself from knocking his forehead against the wall in horror. _What have I done now?_ _Sold my soul for a few sweets_, he told himself grimly.

XXXXX

That week's shopping basket arrived on Tuesday with a note as usual. Erik looked at it, surprised. Had Amélie perhaps decided that she did not want to meet with him anymore? Had she been frightened off by the Opera Ghost's antics? Just earlier that week, he had dropped yet another sandbag beside La Carlotta on the stage, causing several ballet rats to shriek almost as loudly as the hysterical diva. He had noted with a little pride that Amélie had just sat quietly to the side, observing the proceedings silently, before casting a sharp eye around the ceiling of the theatre. He had made sure to stay out of her sight, but he was intrigued by the fact that she was so curious about his identity.

_Monsieur Le Fantôme, I hope you have not forgotten our meeting. I look forward to it! I'll bring a surprise. _

Erik traced the loopy words on the parchment slowly, exhaling a breath that he had not known he had been holding. He admitted to himself that he had been nervous about the letter's contents, believing it to be a letter politely rejecting his invitation to tea. He re-read it with a frown upon his face. _A surprise? What's that? Should I do something too? _He decided not to, as he had no idea what she meant, and also no idea what a surprise constituted of.

Amélie spent the whole week dancing as though she were on wings. Some ballet rats commented that she looked extraordinarily happy, but she brushed their comments off with a casual shrug. She was rather excited to be meeting the feared Opera Ghost, and she wondered what he would be like. She could sense Madame Giry eyeing her suspiciously from the other end of the practice room, but she decided not to let Madame Giry know about her meeting with the Opera Ghost, in case she did not approve. She most likely would not approve, and might even forbid Amélie to go.

On Friday morning, Amélie woke up earlier than normal, and hastily dressed herself. She crept out of the dormitory room, and made her way through the opera house, unlocking the door to the employee's entrance and slipping out of the building quietly. It was still early, and the chilly morning air chaffed at her cheeks. Amélie shivered, rubbing her cheeks with her palms to warm them slightly. She pulled her scarf around her neck more snugly, and set off for the shops.

The baker's had only just opened, and the shop was filled with the aroma of warm bread and flaky pastries. Amélie's stomach rumbled ominously as she entered, and the baker looked up at her in surprise.

"Why, you're early today, Amélie! Will you be wanting your usual loaf of bread, then?" He gestured to the freshly baked golden-brown loaves sitting upon the counter. Amélie shook her head.

"No, monsieur, I was looking for something sweeter! Something that could be eaten for tea?" She was not exactly sure what she wanted to get for her visit to the Opera Ghost's house. The baker looked thoughtful for a moment.

"How about these chocolate dipped croissants, then? They're small and perfect for an afternoon tea party. Having some sort of party with the other ballet rats, are you, Amélie?"

"Well… something like that." Amélie hurriedly agreed with the baker. _I can't be telling him who I'm having tea with, anyway_.

She paid for the small chocolate croissants and thanked the baker.

"It's a pleasure, Amélie. Now, you take care of yourself! I heard rumours about some new ghost at the opera house from one of the stagehands… keep yourself safe, now!" He called after her as she left.

Amélie shivered slightly, though not from the winter chill. She doubted that the ghost could be anything more than harmless, as he had not hurt anybody at all, asides from frightening them, but she still wondered if she would be at any risk by meeting him. _If he murders me, nobody will find my body and it will likely rot somewhere, unknown._ She shook her head and chided herself for having such thoughts when the Opera Ghost had been nothing short of gentlemanly toward her in his letters. He could not be a raving madman. Or at least she hoped.

When she arrived back at the opera house, she stashed her croissants into one of her drawers to prevent one of the ballet rats noticing, and hurriedly ducked under her covers to pretend that she was still sleeping. She was too nervous and excited to sleep, though, and simply lay there staring at the ceiling until most of the ballet rats had risen and were getting ready for breakfast. The rest of the morning was spent rather restlessly. She could not concentrate on her mending, and decided to read a book, but got bored rather quickly, and put her book down. She paced her dormitory, grateful that most of the ballet rats were either playing in the snow, or flirting with the stagehands, too preoccupied to notice that she was not with them. She brushed her hair and tied it back carefully with a ribbon, and made sure that her dress was not too wrinkled. There was nothing else she could do besides sit on her bed and wait for the meeting time with the ghost to arrive.

When she noticed that the clock's face showed a quarter to three, she took the croissants from the drawer, straightened her dress, shoved her feet into her shoes, and made her way to the opera house's chapel. The chapel was somewhere near the back of the building on the ground floor, and Amélie pushed open the heavy doors, creeping in quietly. She stared around the empty room in dismay. _Has he forgotten his promise?_

"Good day, mademoiselle." A voice came from right beside her ear. Amélie turned sharply, but saw no one there.

"Where are you?" She asked nervously, trying to discern something in the darkness of the chapel.

"Behind you." The musical voice came again, this time from her behind her. Amélie spun, and saw, in the shadows, a dark figure. It was the Opera Ghost.

The phantom lifted a hand and beckoned, reaching out the hand to her. And without hesitation, Amélie stepped toward the shadows and took his hand.

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A/N: Please read/review/favourite/follow/let me know you like it! It makes me really happy after a long day at work, and keeps me writing! xx hazel


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: The long awaited chapter! I hope it does not disappoint.

Thank you to new followers **Alpha Vegetable & Savannah White!**

icanhearthedrums: The fateful meeting is here! Enjoy!

Masked Man 2: I swear you must be my favourite reviewer. Thank you so much for always reviewing and for always saying such nice things! (: It is very much appreciated xx

Guest: Check back on Mondays! I update weekly usually. (: Thank you so much!

Swirlingdreamkeeper: To be honest, I haven't even though of what will happen! I'm just playing along as it goes. We'll see! (:

Spirit of the Opera: I know I would sell my soul for some candy, what more Erik? Hehehe. Thank you for reading!

Wild Concerto: Chocolate peppermints are one of my favourite sweets ever. Who could live without them? Hahaha. And pwahaha yes, you'll wait, I'm not going to tell you the answer to that! X)

Anna: No, of course I don't mind! I appreciate your support very very much! And I'm so glad you like the story so far (:

And... on with the story! I hope this chases away some of those Monday blues!

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**Chapter 12: The Opera Ghost's Lair**

_Paris, 1893_

Amélie felt the phantom's hand close around hers, and then he pulled her along with him into the darkness. To her surprise, the chapel's solid brick wall mysteriously slid open to reveal a large, gaping hole, and the ghost stepped within, bringing her along with him. As the wall slid closed behind them, leaving them in the impenetrable darkness, Amélie felt fear rising up her throat, and tried her best to clamp down onto it.

Erik felt her hand tighten instinctively in his, and bit back a smirk. "Are you frightened of the dark, mademoiselle? Should we turn back now? It is not too late yet."

Amélie squared her shoulders and retorted, "I am not scared, monsieur. Kindly lead the way to your house now." Her tone was haughty, but her voice shook slightly, a tremor that did not go unnoticed by either her or Erik. She could have sworn she heard the ghost chuckle slightly, and frowned, reminding herself not to be such a scaredy-cat.

The ghost began to move, and she followed, clutching his hand nervously. She could not see anything in the dark tunnel, and it took immense courage to put each foot forward in another step, when she could not be sure of what she was stepping on, or where she was. She could feel the phantom's fine leather gloves in her hand, and the presence of his hand in hers gave her some comfort, though she still tightened her hold occasionally as she felt something brush past her arm in the darkness. The ghost led her through twisting tunnels, each as dark as the one before, until finally, finally, he stopped at a large opening, guiding Amélie forward.

It was bright at last. Amélie blinked her eyes, trying to let them adjust to the sudden brightness. She could hear the sound of water rippling, and she looked around, trying to find the source. To her great surprise, there was a large, glassy lake before them, its surface smooth and black, with slight ripples cascading across as droplets of water dripped from the ceiling. It was beautiful. Amélie stared at the lake, unmoving, until the ghost tugged once more on her hand, and she allowed him to lead her down a sloping path toward the bank of the river, where a large gondola awaited, tethered to a stake driven through the ground.

The gondola was a majestic contraption of black metal and wood, polished to a dull shine. Amélie ran her hands over its smooth surface reverently, admiring the intricate patterns carved into the wood and the gleam of the metal. The phantom gestured for her to enter the boat, and, holding onto his hand tightly, she gingerly stepped into the rocking boat, trying to find her balance. The interior of the boat was furnished with an exotic looking rug, woven in thread of a multitude of colours, and scattered around the boat were a few throw pillows covered in the same exotic embroidery. Amélie sat down on one end of the gondola, and the phantom bent to untie the boat from its tethers, deftly stepping into the gondola and picking up the oar from the bank of the lake.

It was only then that Amélie could observe him to see what he really looked like. As Madame Giry had said, he was very much a flesh and blood man. He was tall. Amélie herself was by no means short; in fact, she was the tallest in the _ballet de corps_, and yet she was certain that this man would dwarf her by almost a head. He was enveloped in a thick, black cloak, which covered what looked like impeccable evening dress. His face was impassive, and… Amélie frowned. _Is that a mask upon his face?_ The side that was closer to her was white leather, yielding to the planes of his face. Amélie wracked her brain for reasons as to why he would be wearing a mask upon his face, and the only reason she could come up with was that he was trying to hide it. She doubted that the Opera Ghost would be ridiculous enough to wear a mask simply for fashion's sake. She craned her head slightly, trying to observe the other side of his face, when he looked down at her, raising an eyebrow. She blushed slightly, and sat back again, embarrassed at having been caught staring.

He said nothing, but continued driving the boat through the waters, pushing the oar through the calm waters with large, powerful strokes. As they reached a large portcullis, a metal trellis made of wrought iron, the phantom reached forward and pressed a button somewhere on the gate. Amélie watched in amazement as the giant lattice rose slowly from the water, dripping with water and moss, a majestic structure gleaming in the dull light. Amélie could see in the far off distance beyond the gate, cold metal structures emerging from the water.

The ghost simply took up the oar once more and pushed them forward beyond the gate's threshold. Amélie realized that the rising structures were large candelabras, flickering with the heat of a thousand small candles. They had been carefully engineered such that the candles remained above the water's surface, emanating light and heat in small, flickering pools over the lake, but now the candelabras were rising, bringing the candles higher up, such that they cast a warm glow upon the water's surface, beams of light reflecting off the smooth surface of the lake to rest elsewhere. Amélie looked around, seeing that they were surrounded by the magnificent candelabras, which now formed a large pathway.

It was magical. It was unlike anything she had ever seen before. Amélie was enthralled.

It was not until the edge of the boat bumped the opposite shore that Amélie realized that they had arrived. She looked up in surprise. The ghost had jumped off the boat, and was now tethering it to another stake. He held out a hand to her when he was done, and she took it, grateful for the steadiness he provided as she attempted to get out of the rocking boat. She stumbled a little, and ended up crashing into him. Amélie squeaked in surprise. _He's warm._ But the ghost said nothing, and merely righted her before quickly moving away, as though he could not stand to be in such close proximity with her. She watched as he swung his cloak off his shoulders and deposited it over the arm of a divan, before turning to her.

"Welcome to my house, mademoiselle." He bowed mockingly. "You wanted to see the Opera Ghost, and here he is before you."

Amélie looked around the room, taking in her surroundings. She could see now that she was in a large room, with a fireplace at one side of the room, flickering with the dying embers of a fire. There was a couch before the fireplace, and a rug thrown carelessly on the floor before the fireplace. A large table was placed some distance away, with high-backed chairs surrounding it. Amélie presumed that this was some sort of a dining table, as it had been set with glasses and cutlery, with a thin glass in the centre bearing one long-stemmed red rose. Amélie was facing a row of doors that led to other rooms, and at the wall behind the dining table, there was yet another door. Her fingers itched with curiousity to see what was behind the doors.

He noticed her looking at the doors. "All in due time, mademoiselle. You will see those rooms, if only to assuage your annoying curiousity."

Amélie shrugged, not ashamed of the fact that she was deathly curious about it. "It's not a sin to be curious, monsieur."

"Hmm." He made a non-committal sound, removing his coat and hanging it over a coat stand. Amélie took the time to see what he looked like. In the light of the room, she could tell now that he was indeed wearing a white leather mask over half of his face, but the mask did nothing to hide his piercing green gaze, framed by dark lashes. Amélie frowned, thinking of her own lashes, which she felt were rather short and inadequate. He had a straight, sharp nose, and a strong jaw, with a fuller lower lip. She narrowed her eyes, squinting. It seemed as though his lips tended to bloat a little toward the side of the face covered by the mask. His black hair was smoothed back and combed neatly. The Opera Ghost, Amélie reckoned, could not really be called a dashingly handsome man, not the kind that sent the ballet rats swooning, but there was something decidedly very attractive about him.

"If you are quite done staring, mademoiselle, perhaps you would like to see the rooms now." His voice cut through her thoughts, and she cleared her throat, a little embarrassed at having been caught staring again. She nodded her head quickly, and he led over to the doors, opening each one to reveal rooms that were mostly empty.

"I've only just built the house recently, and these rooms were meant to be bedrooms of some sort, but seeing as nobody except myself lives here, there is no need to furnish them." Amélie was not sure, but she thought she detected a strange sense of bitterness in his voice. He moved down the row of doors, until he reached the second last door. She made a move to open it, but he stopped her with a large gloved hand over her hand on the doorknob.

"This door leads to my room, and nobody except myself is allowed to enter." He said fiercely. Amélie drew her hand back at once.

He moved onto the last and final door in the row of doors. "I… do not like people to enter this room, but for once I will make an exception. Do not touch anything you see, is that clear?" He asked, but it was more a statement, an order, than anything else. Amélie nodded her head silently, and he pushed open the door, allowing her to step in.

It was easily the largest room out of the previous rooms he had shown her. The ceiling was high, and there were curtains along one wall, made to mimic windows. _Of course there aren't any windows in here, what can they possibly lead to?_ She giggled a little at the thought. She scanned through the room, noticing the shelves filled with manuscript paper and ink pots, until her eyes came to rest upon the magnificent pipe organ in the centre of the room. Her eyes widened as she took in its glory, the polished wood, the burnished metal pipes.

"Do you play, monsieur?" She moved forward to admire it more closely.

"Yes." His response was short, but there was warmth in the statement. Amélie deduced that the pipe organ probably held a significant amount of meaning for him, judging by the way his face had softened as he had entered the room.

"Will you play for me?" She asked. He frowned.

"I should think not. I invited you down to settle your curiousity, not to perform for you." He said. Amélie pouted.

"Well, that's a pity. I've always wanted to learn how to play some form of music, as it amazes me so." She turned her puppy-face upon him. He stared at her, and she held his gaze for a few moments.

"A short piece, perhaps." He said haltingly, moving forward toward the pipe organ. Amélie grinned happily in response. It seemed that he, like many others, was not immune to her pleading expressions. She stood to the side, anticipating the music as he removed his leather gloves and placed his graceful hands upon the keys of the pipe organ.

As his fingers danced upon the pipe organ, bringing forth a lilting melody that was cheerful and bright, Amélie closed her eyes and let herself be enraptured by the music. His music was calming and soothing, and yet excited her at the same time. It made her want to dance. She had never heard anything like it before. When he stopped, Amélie clapped enthusiastically.

"What a brilliant piece, monsieur! Who was it by? I've never heard it before."

"I just wrote it as I played." He said simply. She gaped at him, and Erik almost laughed at her expression. However, his countenance darkened as he saw that her gaze had drifted down to the scar tissue surrounding his exposed wrists, now that he had removed his gloves. When she lifted her head again and he met her eyes, her gaze was questioning. He angrily snatched up his gloves from where he had placed them on the organ bench, and pulled them on quickly.

"Ask no questions, and you will be told no lies, mademoiselle." He snapped, just as she opened her mouth. She closed it. "I dislike questions, mademoiselle. You will not ask about the mask either. Yes, I _have_ seen you staring at it."

He had not meant to sound so angry, but her questioning look and her stares had brought back memories of being exposed in a dirty cage, gawped at by strangers, laughed at, pointed at, ridiculed. The emotions were often too much for Erik to bear. He regretted it, however, when he saw her face fall slightly. _Perhaps it is only human nature to be curious._

"Well, you played amazingly, monsieur. It is perhaps even more amazing that you composed it on the spot." She offered, in an attempt to pacify him. He looked somewhat mollified, and nodded, beckoning for her to leave the room with him. As they left, she noticed another door that she had not noticed, somewhere next to the fireplace.

"What's that door, monsieur?" She asked, realizing too late that she had asked yet another question. She clapped her hand over her mouth, and Erik looked at her in amusement.

"I will not kill you or torture you simply because of a simple question like that, mademoiselle. You have nothing to worry about." He said dryly. "If you must know, it leads to my library. However I have not had time yet to complete it."

Her face brightened. "A library? I love to read!"

He raised an eyebrow. "Do you, mademoiselle? Trashy romance novels, perhaps?"

She frowned at him. "I will have you know that there is nothing wrong with a trashy romance novel, monsieur. Some of them can be rather quite good. However, I do read other books. I enjoy books on travel, books which talk about other countries, among others. I enjoy fairytales. I enjoy fantasy. In fact, I read just about anything." Her tone was imperious, and Erik felt a strange pang of sadness as he remembered the little girl who had spoken to him in that exact same tone so many years ago in the storeroom, demanding that he tell her a story. "Shall we have tea, now?" She walked back to the dining table, setting a brown paper bag onto it.

Erik looked at it curiously. "What is that, mademoiselle?"

"It's the surprise I mentioned!" She exclaimed gaily. "I hope you will enjoy it. Perhaps it will convince you to let me visit another time." She said cheekily, handing it to him.

He peered over the top of the bag, and the sweet scent of chocolate wafted up his nose.

"It's chocolate croissants." Amélie said nervously.

"I… thank you, mademoiselle." He was staring at the bag as though it was something new and amazing that he had never seen before.

"Is there something wrong? Do you not like them, perhaps?"

"I've never had them before, mademoiselle. I do believe that I will enjoy them."

"Oh. Then why are you staring at them like they're something strange?"

"You're probably the second person who has ever given me a gift in my life," he said simply, almost nonchalantly. "It's the second gift from you, no less. I'll put these onto a plate and bring out our tea, mademoiselle, if you would just wait here."

With that, he disappeared into the room behind the dining table, leaving Amélie to stare, a little dumbfounded, at his disappearing form. _I'm only the second person to have given him a gift?_

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A/N: Please read/review/favourite/follow/let me know you like it! Have a happy week ahead! xx hazel


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: This was a difficult chapter to write, and I still feel that the end is a little rushed, but I couldn't think of any way to salvage it so we will just have to accept it, flaws and all. The chapter we've all been waiting for! It just so happens to be lucky number chapter 13 haha.

Many thanks to **Kalaia, Rogers-comics & jigokunooujo** for the favourites/follows!

Savannah White: Ooh, I'd love the link! Your long wait is finally over! Haha

Wild Concerto: Puppy faces always work! Teehee. Aww Christine won't be that bad!

Masked Man 2: I always feel like I base Erik too much off the heroes in the romance novels I read, but I'm so glad you like him that way! Hehe.

Pineapple3000: Flutter flutter! Here is the long awaited chapter!

Anonymous: Thank you! I'm so glad you like it.

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**Chapter 13: Tea with the Opera Ghost**

_Paris, 1893_

When the phantom emerged from the room behind the dining table, he was carrying a plate in each hand, the first one carrying the chocolate croissants that Amélie had brought, and the second laden with small sandwiches. He set these down on the table, then disappeared into the room, presumably the kitchen, again, and reappeared with a steaming teapot and some teacups. He poured a generous amount of tea into each cup, and then gestured for her to sit.

"Your tea awaits you, mademoiselle." He said gallantly. Amélie beamed at him as she sat herself down at one end of the table. He moved himself to the opposite end, shifting the plates to the middle of the table. "I was not sure of what you like, so I simply made some sandwiches."

"Oh, I'm not a picky eater." Amélie reached for one, examining the contents. "I eat just about anything that's put before me. Oh, isn't this roast chicken and cucumber? I don't remember buying any for you during my last trip…?" She trailed off as she realized that she was yet again asking a question. "Oh. I'm sorry, that was another question. You don't have to answer that."

To her great surprise, he laughed. It was a small, short laugh, but it sounded very genuine, and Amélie looked at him in amazement. His laugh sounded warm and inviting, rather unlike his usual behaviour. The laugh ended as quickly as it had come, and Amélie found herself quite missing the rich timbre of the laugh.

"Indeed that was a question, mademoiselle. However, I will answer it. I _do_ go out to the shops by myself. I prefer not to, but there are times when I am in urgent need of food or other items, and I make a trip to the shops late in the evening just before they are about to close." He said amiably, trying to bite into his sandwich with a little difficulty, as part of the mask obstructed him. Amélie was about to ask him to take it off it made eating difficult, but she recalled his dislike of mentioning the mask, and hurriedly refrained from telling him. He had removed his gloves to eat, and she kept herself from staring at the scars on his wrist, though she was curious.

When he took up his teacup to drink his tea, Amélie realized that she had neglected hers. She lifted the cup to her lips, but upon her first sip, immediately spluttered and struggled to swallow the strong brew. She coughed hastily, wiping her mouth, and noticed the corners of the phantom's lips turning up in a smirk. He was _laughing_ at her. She stared at him indignantly.

"The tea is not to your liking, mademoiselle?" He sanguinely drank more tea. Amélie stared at him.

"Is that even tea, monsieur?" She lifted the teacup again to attempt another taste, before sticking out her tongue in distaste and setting it back down again.

"The taste grows on you. It's my favourite Russian tea." He told her leisurely. "I have other types of tea, mademoiselle, if you wish?"

Amélie realized from the small smirk that still remained on his face that this was his way of getting back at her for coercing him to invite her to his house. He could have very well served her the tea she was used to at the start, but he had chosen to serve her this strange tasting drink that could not have possibly passed off as her normal tea.

"No, I'll drink it." Her tone was defiant, and he raised an eyebrow skeptically. Amélie fixed him with her best death-glare – learnt from Madame Giry—and drank the contents of the cup in one gulp, wincing slightly at the strong taste. He looked slightly impressed, but said nothing else.

The two ate in companionable silence for a while. It did not feel awkward or strange, but rather comforting, as they devoured the sandwiches and croissants. Amélie noticed that the ghost did not eat much, but he did seem to enjoy the chocolate croissants very much. She would remember to buy more of them the next time she had extra money to spend.

Amélie broke the silence first with a question. She could not help it, as the ghost was such a mystery that every part of her was dying to find out something more about him. "Monsieur… may I ask you one question? Just one question about yourself?"

He frowned. "I told you I dislike questions. However, I will humour you. What is it?"

"I just want to find out more about the mysterious Opera Ghost who has everyone quaking in their boots, monsieur." She said charmingly. "Just tell me about yourself."

"That's not even a question, mademoiselle. That is a very vague, very general statement. What exactly would you like to know about me? _One_ question."

"Oh, I don't know… I didn't come prepared with a list of questions." She cast her mind about, trying to think of something to ask, and then brightened up when she latched onto the most ridiculous question she had ever thought of. "Oh, monsieur! You can tell me about your first love."

He visibly balked. "What?"

"It's just a silly question, really. The ballet rats have been swooning over the newest romance novel in the bookstores, and they were sharing stories about _their_ first loves. It just makes me curious." She shrugged. "So, what about yours, monsieur?"

"I don't _have_ a first love." He said rather faintly. "Now, why don't you—"

His attempt to change the topic was foiled by her. "Nonsense, monsieur! Justine said that _everyone_ has a first love. You must have one! After all, you're much older than we are."

He raised his eyebrows. "Oh, Justine did, did she? And suddenly Justine is an expert on love…" If Erik recalled correctly, Justine was a ballet rat who shared Amélie's room, with a tendency to put more effort into flirting with the stagehands than her dancing, much to Antoinette's chagrin. He made a mental note to leave a couple of spiders in Justine's bed that night.

She continued as though she had not heard him speak. "Indeed, I believe that you're just shy, monsieur. I'll tell you about my first love, and then you can tell me about yours." She declared boldly. He sighed, but leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, and she took that as permission to continue.

"He was my friend, my first love. I barely remember him, really. It's all quite silly but… Well, I hardly remember my childhood, but I have vague memories of a boy who used to tell me stories when I was a child. He was warm and gentle, and his stories, oh, they were amazing. They brought me to far-off fantasy worlds with magic and castles and all the things a little girl could ever dream of seeing. I was happy. Then one day he disappeared, and he never came back. I was heartbroken at that time." Amélie said dreamily. "But there, you have it, the story of my first love. I do hope you feel honoured, monsieur, for I've never told anyone about this before, not even when the ballet rats pestered me to let them know."

Erik was sitting frozen in his chair, visibly paler than before. He had shifted his hands down to his lap, and his fists were clenched upon his knees below the table. He was not sure how to respond to her story. _Does she mean… me? No, she can't possibly mean me._

He forced himself to laugh awkwardly. "Is that so, mademoiselle? It sounds like a rather sad story."

"Perhaps," she said dully, "the ending is sad, but the times spent together before he left were the happiest times I can remember of my childhood in the opera house. But maybe it is time to bury these ghosts of the past and move on with my life."

He did not know how to reply to that, and merely kept silent, sipping his tea. He maintained his calm facade, but inside, his mind was swirling with tumultuous thoughts of what she had just said. Erik decided that he had to stay away from her in the future. _I cannot risk her realizing who I am. She will only be disappointed when she realizes that her 'first love' is nothing more than a demon._

When they had finished their tea, Erik stood, clearing the plates from the table. Amélie made a move to help, but he waved her away, gathering up all the cutlery and crockery and bringing them to the kitchen.

"Our tea is over, mademoiselle. I believe that it is time I return you back to the dormitories." He said formally. Amélie frowned at his sudden coldness.

"Will I see you again, monsieur?"

"No, I don't think so-" He began, but, undeterred, Amélie grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously and firmly.

"It was enchanting getting to meet you, monsieur. I hope to see you again." She said. He quickly withdrew his hand, but could not forget the lingering feeling of her hand in his own, without the barrier of his leather gloves.

He silently brought her back across the lake. Amélie sat back in the boat, enjoying the relaxing sounds of rippling water as the gondola swept through the lake. When they arrived back at the opposite shore, he led her back through the twisting tunnels, to the secret door in the wall of the chapel.

"I trust that you can find your own way back from here, mademoiselle." With a swish of his black cloak, he was gone, leaving behind only a faint scent of cologne. Amélie stood in the darkness for a few moments, taking in the events that had just happened. She had just had _tea with the_ _Opera Ghost_. The notion was so ridiculous that Amélie could not help but laugh out loud.

Throughout the remainder of the day, Amélie wondered if the afternoon's events had been but a figment of her imagination. After all, who would have imagined that beneath the Palais Garnier stood a magnificent house, surrounded by a gargantuan lake of clear water? It was the stuff of the lurid gothic novels that were so popular amongst young ladies. In fact, Amélie felt as though she had just stepped out of one of those very novels.

She was distracted throughout dinnertime thinking of the Opera Ghost, trying to deduce why he was so mysterious, or why he would choose to live beneath the opera house. Meg noticed that the usually cheerful Amélie was broody and thoughtful, and attempted to cheer her up by making silly faces at her. Amélie was so deeply engrossed in her thoughts that she barely noticed Meg.

"Really, Amélie! Where in the world is your head! It seems as though you're all up in the clouds today!" Meg waved her hand vigorously before Amélie's face. Amélie gave a start.

"Oh, Meg. I'm sorry, I didn't notice. I was thinking of something else." Amélie sighed, putting her fork down. Meg leaned forward curiously.

"What are you thinking of, then?"

"It's nothing really…" Amélie said, but could not resist teasing. "Nothing that a little girl like you would understand, of course." _I'm just thinking about the Opera Ghost, and exactly why he chose to haunt this opera house, and who he really is. _It was frustrating not having someone to confide in, but Amélie doubted that she could go running along to Madame Giry to ask her about it. Madame Giry would be horrified that she had actually visited the Opera Ghost's house; Amélie was certain that Madame Giry would disapprove heartily.

Meg frowned. "I'm not _that_ little. Unless you're thinking of a _man_, in which case I wouldn't be of any help." She narrowed her eyes at Amélie. "It's a man, isn't it?"

"Of course not." Amélie ruffled Meg's hair. "At least I'm thankful that you haven't had any experience in affairs of the heart yet. It's going to be a few more years until you go around breaking hearts."

Meg scoffed, and Amélie smiled back at her a little distractedly, her mind still filled with thoughts about the Opera Ghost.

XXXXX

And in the end, it was Amélie's damnable curiousity that allowed her to meet the Opera Ghost once more. A couple of weeks had passed since her first visit, with each week's grocery basket bearing a letter from her asking if she could visit again, only to be replied with a curt rejection. The Opera Ghost apparently valued his privacy very much. Amélie sighed as she made her way to the quiet chapel after lunch one day. She was bored from the ballet rats' inane chatter, and desperately needed to find a peaceful place.

Amélie strolled around the chapel. It was dark, with dusty streams of sunlight filtering in from the stained glass windows around the domed ceiling. She stopped at the wall where she had first met the phantom. It looked like just any other ordinary wall, and she frowned as she contemplated the solid brick, wondering how he had managed to open the secret passageway. She ran her hands over it cautiously, her fingers trailing over the rough brick, searching inquisitively for anything that could reveal the secret to the passageway.

It took her five whole attempts of searching the brick wall, but finally, on the fifth attempt, her fingers caught on a little button around her waist level. She bent to look at the wall, and found that a small brick had been marked with a cross, so small and faint that anybody would have missed it had they had not been looking intently at that very point. Amélie held her breath as she pressed down onto the button.

And slowly, slowly, the wall creaked and moved, to reveal a gaping hole. _The passageway!_

Amélie threw all caution to the wind and stepped into the passageway, wishing that she had had the sense to bring along a lantern of some sorts. She thrust her hands outward, trying to determine which way she was going.

It took many stumbles, trips, and scrapes, but by some trick of chance, or some sort of miracle, Amélie actually managed to end up at the opening of the tunnel which led to the lake, covered in scrapes and cobwebs. Pausing to catch her breath with her hands on her knees, she contemplated the lake silently. It was still as beautiful as ever, and again Amélie marveled at the fact that there was actually a lake beneath the opera house. The only problem now, however would be how she was to get across the lake. _Oh, and of course the issue of what happens when the phantom finds me in his house…_ The gondola stood, silently, ominously, against the still waters, like a predator awaiting its hapless prey. _Dare I try…?_

With great hesitancy, Amélie made her way to the gondola, and loosened the knot of the rope tethering it to the shore. She wondered if the fact that the gondola was not at the opposite shore meant that the phantom was not at home. As she pushed the boat of the shore, she unsteadily leaped into the boat, giving a loud squeal as it rocked from side to side dangerously. Her squeal echoed around the cavern, bouncing off the walls and coming back at her tenfold from all directions. Amélie shuddered. It was creepy.

She picked up the oar and carefully pushed it through the water.

The boat moved about an inch.

She stared at the unmoving waters, frustrated. Gritting her teeth and mustering all her strength, she tried again to push the gondola through the waters, muttering unladylike curses under her breath.

By the time Amélie had passed three quarters of the lake, her arms were aching and she was cursing her own bad decision for having attempted this ludicrous mission. A bead of sweat made its way down the side of her face as she forced her heavy arms to yet again drive the oar through the water.

Unfortunately for Amélie, she had miscalculated the amount of strength she had to use, and as such, the force she exerted caused the boat to rock precariously to the side. Amélie shrieked in horror as she tried to right the boat. The boat tipped, and with a great splash, Amélie went overboard.

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A/N: Please read/review/favourite/follow/let me know what you think! xx hazel


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